diff --git a/.gitignore b/.gitignore
index 7be1202..0fd834d 100644
--- a/.gitignore
+++ b/.gitignore
@@ -1,2 +1,3 @@
.idea/
*.xml
+.idea/vcs.xml
diff --git "a/BasicAlgorithm/notes/04\346\216\222\345\272\217\347\256\227\346\263\225\347\232\204\350\241\245\345\205\205.md" "b/BasicAlgorithm/notes/04\346\216\222\345\272\217\347\256\227\346\263\225\347\232\204\350\241\245\345\205\205.md"
deleted file mode 100644
index 44dd675..0000000
--- "a/BasicAlgorithm/notes/04\346\216\222\345\272\217\347\256\227\346\263\225\347\232\204\350\241\245\345\205\205.md"
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,210 +0,0 @@
-
-* [排序算法的补充](#排序算法的补充)
- * [计数排序](#计数排序)
- * [桶排序](#桶排序)
- * [基数排序](#基数排序)
-
-
-# 排序算法的补充
-
-- 非线性时间比较类排序:通过**比较**来决定元素间的相对次序,
-由于其时间复杂度不能突破O(nlogn),因此称为**非线性时间比较类排序**。
-
-线性时间非比较类排序:不通过比较来决定元素间的相对次序,它可以突破基于比较排序的时间下界,**以线性时间运行**,
-因此称为**线性时间非比较类排序**。
-
-
-
-## 计数排序
-计数排序不是基于比较的排序算法,其核心在于将输入的数据值转化为键存储在额外开辟的数组空间中。
-作为一种线性时间复杂度的排序,计数排序要求**输入的数据必须是有确定范围的整数**。
-
-### 1.算法描述
-- 找出待排序的数组中最大和最小的元素
-- 统计数组中每个值为i的元素出现的次数,存入数组C的第i项
-- 对所有的计数累加(从C中的第一个元素开始,每一项和前一项相加)
-- 反向填充目标数组:将每个元素i放在新数组的第C(i)项,每放一个元素就将C(i)减去1。
-
-### 2.代码实现
-```java
-public class CountSort{
- public void sort(int[] arr) {
- if (arr == null || arr.length < 2) {
- return;
- }
- int max = Integer.MIN_VALUE;
- for (int i = 0; i < arr.length; i++) {
- max = Math.max(max, arr[i]);
- }
- int[] bucket = new int[max + 1];
- for (int i = 0; i < arr.length; i++) {
- bucket[arr[i]]++;
- }
- int sortedIndex = 0;
- for (int j = 0; j < bucket.length; j++) {
- while (bucket[j]-- > 0) {
- arr[sortedIndex++] = j;
- }
- }
- }
-}
-```
-
-## 桶排序
-
-### 1.算法描述
-桶排序是计数排序的升级版。
-它利用了函数的映射关系,高效与否的关键就在于这个映射函数的确定。
-
-桶排序 (Bucket sort)的工作的原理:
-假设输入数据服从均匀分布,将数据分到有限数量的桶里,
-每个桶再分别排序(有可能再使用别的排序算法或是以递归方式继续使用桶排序进行排序)
-
-### 2.桶排序的应用
-- 计算数组排序后相邻数的最大差值。(要求时间复杂度:O(n))
-
-```java
-public class MaxGap {
- public static int maxGap(int[] arr){
- if(arr==null || arr.length<2){
- return 0;
- }
- int len=arr.length;
- int min=Integer.MAX_VALUE;
- int max=Integer.MIN_VALUE;
- for(int i=0;i
-
-### 2.代码实现
-```java
-public class RadixSort {
- //取得数组中的最大数,并取得位数
- private int maxBits(int[] arr){
- int max=Integer.MIN_VALUE;
- for(int i=0;i=begin;i--){
- j=getDigit(arr[i],d);
- bucket[count[j]-1]=arr[i];
- count[j]--;
- }
- for(i=begin,j=0;i<=end;i++,j++){
- arr[i]=bucket[i];
- }
- }
- }
-
- public void sort(int[] arr){
- if(arr==null || arr.length<2){
- return;
- }
- sort(arr,0,arr.length-1,maxBits(arr));
- }
-}
-```
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git "a/BasicAlgorithm/notes/05\346\216\222\345\272\217\347\256\227\346\263\225\345\260\217\347\273\223.md" "b/BasicAlgorithm/notes/05\346\216\222\345\272\217\347\256\227\346\263\225\345\260\217\347\273\223.md"
deleted file mode 100644
index f73c31c..0000000
--- "a/BasicAlgorithm/notes/05\346\216\222\345\272\217\347\256\227\346\263\225\345\260\217\347\273\223.md"
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,20 +0,0 @@
-# 小结
-
-## 1.排序算法的分类
-
-
-
-## 2.排序算法的比较
-
-
-
-快速排序是最快的通用排序算法,它的内循环的指令很少,而且它还能利用缓存,因为它总是顺序地访问数据。
-它的运行时间近似为 \~cNlogN,这里的 c 比其它线性对数级别的排序算法都要小。
-
-使用三向切分快速排序,实际应用中可能出现的某些分布的输入能够达到线性级别,
-而其它排序算法仍然需要线性对数时间。
-
-### 3. Java 的排序算法实现
-
-Java 主要排序方法为 java.util.Arrays.sort(),对于**原始数据类型使用三向切分的快速排序**,
-对于**引用类型使用归并排序**。
\ No newline at end of file
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diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/Sort.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/Sort.java
deleted file mode 100644
index b1e8b5c..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/Sort.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,19 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_basicSort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public abstract class Sort> {
-
- public abstract void sort(T[] arr);
-
- protected boolean less(T v, T w) {
- return v.compareTo(w) < 0;
- }
-
- protected void swap(T[] arr, int i, int j) {
- T t = arr[i];
- arr[i] = arr[j];
- arr[j] = t;
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/SortTestHelper.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/SortTestHelper.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 2b1493a..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/SortTestHelper.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,48 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_basicSort;
-
-/**
- * 随机生成算法测试用例
- */
-public class SortTestHelper {
- // SortTestHelper不允许产生任何实例
- private SortTestHelper(){
-
- }
-
- //生成有n个整数元素的随机数组,每个元素的随机范围为[rangeL, rangeR]
- public static Integer[] generateRandomArray(int n,int rangeL,int rangeR){
- assert rangeL<=rangeR;
-
- Integer[] arr=new Integer[n];
- for(int i=0;i 0 ){
- return false;
- }
- }
- return true;
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/SortTestUtils.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/SortTestUtils.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 9a26985..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/SortTestUtils.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,39 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_basicSort;
-
-/**
- * 测试算法的性能测试的工具类
- */
-public class SortTestUtils {
- private SortTestUtils(){
-
- }
-
- //判断数组是否有序(按照升序排列)
- public static boolean isSorted(Comparable[] arr){
- for(int i=0;i0){
- return false;
- }
- }
- return true;
- }
-
- // 测试sortClassName所对应的排序算法排序arr数组所得到结果的正确性和算法运行时间
- public static void testSort(Sort sort, Comparable[] arr){
- try{
- Class sortClass=sort.getClass();
-
- long startTime = System.currentTimeMillis();
- // 调用排序函数
- sort.sort(arr);
- long endTime = System.currentTimeMillis();
-
- assert isSorted( arr );
-
- System.out.println(sortClass.getSimpleName()+ " : " + (endTime-startTime) + "ms" );
- }
- catch(Exception e){
- e.printStackTrace();
- }
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_00_selectionSort/SelectionSort.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_00_selectionSort/SelectionSort.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 4dfcb7a..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_00_selectionSort/SelectionSort.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,22 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_basicSort.code_00_selectionSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.Sort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class SelectionSort> extends Sort {
- @Override
- public void sort(T[] arr) {
- int N= arr.length;
- for(int i=0;i {
-
- private String name;
- private int score;
-
- public Student(String name, int score){
- this.name = name;
- this.score = score;
- }
-
- // 定义Student的compareTo函数
- // 如果分数相等,则按照名字的字母序排序
- // 如果分数不等,则分数高的靠前
- @Override
- public int compareTo(Student that) {
- if( this.score < that.score ){
- return -1;
- } else if( this.score > that.score ){
- return 1;
- } else{
- // this.score == that.score
- return this.name.compareTo(that.name);
- }
- }
-
- // 定义Student实例的打印输出方式
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- return "{Student: " + this.name + " " + Integer.toString( this.score )+"}";
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_01_bubbleSort/BubbleSort.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_01_bubbleSort/BubbleSort.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 2bd2920..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_01_bubbleSort/BubbleSort.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,24 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_basicSort.code_01_bubbleSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.Sort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class BubbleSort> extends Sort {
- @Override
- public void sort(T[] arr) {
- int N=arr.length;
- //设定一个标记,若为true,则表示此次循环没有进行交换,也就是待排序列已经有序,排序已然完成。
- boolean hasSorted=false;
- for(int i=N-1;i>0 && !hasSorted;i--){
- hasSorted=true;
- for(int j=0;j> extends Sort {
- @Override
- public void sort(T[] arr) {
- int N=arr.length;
- for(int i=1;i0 && less(arr[j],arr[j-1]);j--){
- swap(arr,j-1,j);
- }
- }
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_02_insertionSort/InsertionSortTest.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_02_insertionSort/InsertionSortTest.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 096e2e2..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_02_insertionSort/InsertionSortTest.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,37 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_basicSort.code_02_insertionSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.SortTestHelper;
-import code_00_basicSort.code_00_selectionSort.Student;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class InsertionSortTest {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- InsertionSort insertionSort=new InsertionSort();
-
- // 测试Integer
- Integer[] a = {10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1};
- insertionSort.sort(a);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(a);
-
- // 测试Double
- Double[] b = {4.4, 3.3, 2.2, 1.1};
- insertionSort.sort(b);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(b);
-
- // 测试String
- String[] c = {"D", "C", "B", "A"};
- insertionSort.sort(c);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(c);
-
- // 测试自定义的类 Student
- Student[] d = new Student[4];
- d[0] = new Student("D",90);
- d[1] = new Student("C",100);
- d[2] = new Student("B",95);
- d[3] = new Student("A",95);
- insertionSort.sort(d);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(d);
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_03_shellSort/ShellSort.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_03_shellSort/ShellSort.java
deleted file mode 100644
index b83fad0..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_03_shellSort/ShellSort.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,29 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_basicSort.code_03_shellSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.Sort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class ShellSort> extends Sort {
- @Override
- public void sort(T[] arr) {
- int N=arr.length;
- int h=1;
-
- while(h < N/3){
- h=3*h+1;
- // 1, 4, 13, 40, ...
- }
-
- while(h>=1){
- //类比排序算法
- for(int i=h;i=h && less(arr[j],arr[j-h]);j-=h){
- swap(arr,j,j-h);
- }
- }
- h/=3;
- }
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_03_shellSort/ShellSortTest.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_03_shellSort/ShellSortTest.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 1ef54cc..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_00_basicSort/code_03_shellSort/ShellSortTest.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,37 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_basicSort.code_03_shellSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.SortTestHelper;
-import code_00_basicSort.code_00_selectionSort.Student;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class ShellSortTest {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- ShellSort shellSort=new ShellSort();
-
- // 测试Integer
- Integer[] a = {10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1};
- shellSort.sort(a);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(a);
-
- // 测试Double
- Double[] b = {4.4, 3.3, 2.2, 1.1};
- shellSort.sort(b);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(b);
-
- // 测试String
- String[] c = {"D", "C", "B", "A"};
- shellSort.sort(c);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(c);
-
- // 测试自定义的类 Student
- Student[] d = new Student[4];
- d[0] = new Student("D",90);
- d[1] = new Student("C",100);
- d[2] = new Student("B",95);
- d[3] = new Student("A",95);
- shellSort.sort(d);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(d);
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/Down2UpMergeSort.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/Down2UpMergeSort.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 358793e..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/Down2UpMergeSort.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,19 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_advancedSort.code_00_mergeSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.Sort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class Down2UpMergeSort> extends MergeSort {
- @Override
- public void sort(T[] arr) {
- int N=arr.length;
- aux=(T[])new Comparable[N];
- for(int sz=1;sz> extends Sort {
- protected T[] aux;//自定义的辅助数组
-
- /**
- * 合并[l,mid]和[mid+1,r]
- * 其中[l,mid]、[mid+1,r]是已经有序的序列
- */
- protected void merge(T[] arr,int l,int mid,int r){
- int k=l;
- //i数值在[l,mid]之间
- int i=l;
- //j数值在[mid+1,r]之间
- int j=mid+1;
- while(i<=mid && j<=r){
- if(less(arr[i],arr[j])){
- aux[k++]=arr[i++];
- }else{
- aux[k++]=arr[j++];
- }
- }
- while(i<=mid){
- aux[k++]=arr[i++];
- }
- while(j<=r){
- aux[k++]=arr[j++];
- }
-
- for(int index=l;index<=r;index++){
- arr[index]=aux[index];
- }
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/MergeSortTest.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/MergeSortTest.java
deleted file mode 100644
index e07064a..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/MergeSortTest.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,37 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_advancedSort.code_00_mergeSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.SortTestHelper;
-import code_00_basicSort.code_00_selectionSort.Student;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class MergeSortTest {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- MergeSort mergeSort=new Up2DownMergeSort();
-
- // 测试Integer
- Integer[] a = {10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1};
- mergeSort.sort(a);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(a);
-
- // 测试Double
- Double[] b = {4.4, 3.3, 2.2, 1.1};
- mergeSort.sort(b);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(b);
-
- // 测试String
- String[] c = {"D", "C", "B", "A"};
- mergeSort.sort(c);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(c);
-
- // 测试自定义的类 Student
- Student[] d = new Student[4];
- d[0] = new Student("D",90);
- d[1] = new Student("C",100);
- d[2] = new Student("B",95);
- d[3] = new Student("A",95);
- mergeSort.sort(d);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(d);
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/MergeSortTest2.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/MergeSortTest2.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 0e7bec9..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/MergeSortTest2.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,37 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_advancedSort.code_00_mergeSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.SortTestHelper;
-import code_00_basicSort.code_00_selectionSort.Student;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class MergeSortTest2 {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- MergeSort mergeSort=new Down2UpMergeSort();
-
- // 测试Integer
- Integer[] a = {10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1};
- mergeSort.sort(a);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(a);
-
- // 测试Double
- Double[] b = {4.4, 3.3, 2.2, 1.1};
- mergeSort.sort(b);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(b);
-
- // 测试String
- String[] c = {"D", "C", "B", "A"};
- mergeSort.sort(c);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(c);
-
- // 测试自定义的类 Student
- Student[] d = new Student[4];
- d[0] = new Student("D",90);
- d[1] = new Student("C",100);
- d[2] = new Student("B",95);
- d[3] = new Student("A",95);
- mergeSort.sort(d);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(d);
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/ReverseNum.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/ReverseNum.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 027448e..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_00_mergeSort/ReverseNum.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,75 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_advancedSort.code_00_mergeSort;
-
-/**
- * 使用归并排序思路求解逆序对
- */
-public class ReverseNum {
- /**
- * 暴力求解
- */
- public int getNum1(int[] arr){
- int res=0;
- int N=arr.length;
- for(int i=0;iarr[j]){
- res++;
- }
- }
- }
- return res;
- }
-
- /**
- * 使用归并排序思路求解逆序对
- */
- public int getNum2(int[] arr){
- return sort(arr);
- }
-
- private int sort(int[] arr){
- return sort(arr,0,arr.length-1);
- }
-
- public int sort(int[] arr,int l,int r){
- if(l==r){
- return 0;
- }
- int m=l+(r-l)/2;
- int res=0;
- res+=sort(arr,l,m);
- res+=sort(arr,m+1,r);
- res+=merge(arr,l,m,r);
- return res;
- }
-
- public int merge(int[] arr,int l,int mid,int r){
- int[] aux=new int[r-l+1];
- int k=0;
- //i数值在[l,mid]之间
- int i=l;
- //j数值在[mid+1,r]之间
- int j=mid+1;
- int res=0;
- while(i<=mid && j<=r){
- if(arr[i]<=arr[j]){
- aux[k++]=arr[i++];
- }else{
- res+=mid-i+1;
- aux[k++]=arr[j++];
- }
- }
- while(i<=mid){
- aux[k++]=arr[i++];
- }
- while(j<=r){
- aux[k++]=arr[j++];
- }
-
- //arr的[l,r]
- for(int index=0;index> extends MergeSort{
- @Override
- public void sort(T[] arr) {
- //aux=new T[nums.length];//error 因为存在类型擦除
- //正确方式
- aux = (T[]) new Comparable[arr.length];
- sort(arr,0,arr.length-1);
- }
-
- private void sort(T[] arr,int l,int r){
- //l==r 就只有一个元素,已经排好序了
- if(l>=r){
- return;
- }
- int mid=(r-l)/2+l;
- sort(arr,l,mid);
- sort(arr,mid+1,r);
- merge(arr,l,mid,r);
- }
-}
-
-
-
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/QuickSort.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/QuickSort.java
deleted file mode 100644
index c4836e0..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/QuickSort.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,55 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_advancedSort.code_01_quickSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.Sort;
-
-import java.util.Arrays;
-import java.util.Collections;
-import java.util.List;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class QuickSort> extends Sort {
- @Override
- public void sort(T[] arr) {
- shuffle(arr);
- sort(arr,0,arr.length-1);
- }
-
- private void sort(T[] arr,int l,int r){
- if(l>=r){
- return;
- }
- int j=partition(arr,l,r);
- sort(arr,l,j);
- sort(arr,j+1,r);
- }
-
- private int partition(T[] arr,int l,int r){
- T pivot=arr[l];
- int i=l;
- int j=r;
-
- while(i list = Arrays.asList(arr);
- Collections.shuffle(list);
- list.toArray(arr);
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/QuickSortTest.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/QuickSortTest.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 096a311..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/QuickSortTest.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,38 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_advancedSort.code_01_quickSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.SortTestHelper;
-import code_00_basicSort.code_00_selectionSort.Student;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class QuickSortTest {
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- QuickSort quickSort=new QuickSort();
-
- // 测试Integer
- Integer[] a = {10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1};
- quickSort.sort(a);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(a);
-
- // 测试Double
- Double[] b = {4.4, 3.3, 2.2, 1.1};
- quickSort.sort(b);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(b);
-
- // 测试String
- String[] c = {"D", "C", "B", "A"};
- quickSort.sort(c);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(c);
-
- // 测试自定义的类 Student
- Student[] d = new Student[4];
- d[0] = new Student("D",90);
- d[1] = new Student("C",100);
- d[2] = new Student("B",95);
- d[3] = new Student("A",95);
- quickSort.sort(d);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(d);
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/SelectK.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/SelectK.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 13c4eb5..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/SelectK.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,42 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_advancedSort.code_01_quickSort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class SelectK {
- public int select(int[] nums, int k) {
- int l = 0;
- int h = nums.length - 1;
- while (l < h) {
- int j = partition(nums, l, h);
- if (j == k) {
- return nums[k];
- } else if (j > k) {
- h = j - 1;
- } else {
- l = j + 1;
- }
- }
- return nums[k];
- }
-
- private int partition(int[] arr,int l,int r){
- int pivot=arr[l];
- int i=l;
- int j=r;
- while(ipivot && i= pivot的元素
- while(arr[i]> extends Sort {
- @Override
- public void sort(T[] arr) {
- sort(arr,0,arr.length-1);
- }
-
- private void sort(T[] arr,int l,int r){
- if(l>=r){
- return;
- }
- int lt = l, i = l + 1, gt = r;
- T v = arr[l];
- while(i<=gt){
- int cmp=arr[i].compareTo(v);
- if(cmp<0){
- swap(arr,lt++,i);
- i++;
- }else if(cmp>0){
- swap(arr,i,gt--);
- }else{
- i++;
- }
- }
- sort(arr,l,lt-1);
- sort(arr,gt+1,r);
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/ThreeWayQuickSortTest.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/ThreeWayQuickSortTest.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 51b6fe0..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_01_advancedSort/code_01_quickSort/ThreeWayQuickSortTest.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,15 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_advancedSort.code_01_quickSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.SortTestHelper;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/10.
- */
-public class ThreeWayQuickSortTest {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- Integer[] arr={2,2,3,3,4,1,1,1,1,1,1};
- ThreeWayQuickSort sort=new ThreeWayQuickSort();
- sort.sort(arr);
- SortTestHelper.printArray(arr);
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_02_heapSort/HeapSort.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_02_heapSort/HeapSort.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 07b660a..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_02_heapSort/HeapSort.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,46 +0,0 @@
-package code_02_heapSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.Sort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/11.
- */
-public class HeapSort> extends Sort {
- @Override
- public void sort(T[] arr) {
- int N=arr.length;
- for(int i=N/2;i>=0;i--){
- sink(arr,i,N);
- }
-
- while (N>1){
- swap(arr,0,N-1);
- N--;
- //与第一个元素交换后,最大元素就是arr[N-1]
- sink(arr,0,N);
- }
- }
-
- //下沉操作
- private void sink(T[] arr,int k,int N){
- while(leftChild(k)> {
- private T[] heap;
- private int N;
-
- MaxHeap(int maxN){
- heap=(T[])new Comparable[maxN];
- this.N=0;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return N == 0;
- }
-
- public int size() {
- return N;
- }
-
- private boolean less(int i, int j) {
- return heap[i].compareTo(heap[j]) < 0;
- }
-
- private void swap(int i, int j) {
- T t = heap[i];
- heap[i] = heap[j];
- heap[j] = t;
- }
-
- //返回一个索引的父节点的索引
- private int parent(int index){
- if(index==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("index-0 does not have parment");
- }
- return (index-1)/2;
- }
-
-
- //获取index节点的左孩子索引
- private int leftChild(int index){
- assert index>=0 && index=0 && index0 && less(parent(k),k)){
- swap(k,parent(k));
- k=parent(k);
- }
- }
-
- /**
- * 下沉操作
- * 当一个节点比子节点来得小,也需要不断地向下进行比较和交换操作,把这种操作称为下沉。
- 一个节点如果有两个子节点,应当与两个子节点中最大那个节点进行交换。
- */
- private void sink(int k){
- while(leftChild(k) maxHeap=new MaxHeap<>(20);
-
- maxHeap.insert(3);
- maxHeap.insert(1);
- maxHeap.insert(5);
- maxHeap.insert(6);
- maxHeap.insert(8);
- maxHeap.insert(9);
- maxHeap.insert(-100);
- maxHeap.insert(10);
- maxHeap.insert(12);
- maxHeap.insert(13);
- maxHeap.insert(1000);
- maxHeap.insert(190);
- maxHeap.insert(-1);
- maxHeap.insert(-10);
-
- System.out.println(maxHeap.delMax());
- System.out.println(maxHeap.delMax());
- System.out.println(maxHeap.delMax());
- System.out.println(maxHeap.delMax());
- System.out.println(maxHeap.delMax());
- System.out.println(maxHeap.delMax());
- System.out.println(maxHeap.delMax());
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/BucketSort.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/BucketSort.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 9fc6b61..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/BucketSort.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,12 +0,0 @@
-package code_03_othersSort;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-/**
- * 使用桶排序思想计算
- * 数组排序后相邻数最大差值
- */
-public class BucketSort {
-
-
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/BucketSortTest.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/BucketSortTest.java
deleted file mode 100644
index d5ec55b..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/BucketSortTest.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,7 +0,0 @@
-package code_03_othersSort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/11.
- */
-public class BucketSortTest {
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/CountSort.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/CountSort.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 52e8f1a..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/CountSort.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,28 +0,0 @@
-package code_03_othersSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.Sort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/11.
- */
-public class CountSort{
- public void sort(int[] arr) {
- if (arr == null || arr.length < 2) {
- return;
- }
- int max = Integer.MIN_VALUE;
- for (int i = 0; i < arr.length; i++) {
- max = Math.max(max, arr[i]);
- }
- int[] bucket = new int[max + 1];
- for (int i = 0; i < arr.length; i++) {
- bucket[arr[i]]++;
- }
- int sortedIndex = 0;
- for (int j = 0; j < bucket.length; j++) {
- while (bucket[j]-- > 0) {
- arr[sortedIndex++] = j;
- }
- }
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/CountSortTest.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/CountSortTest.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 315001c..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/CountSortTest.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,18 +0,0 @@
-package code_03_othersSort;
-
-import code_00_basicSort.SortTestHelper;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/11.
- */
-public class CountSortTest {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- CountSort countSort=new CountSort();
-
- int[] arr = {10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1};
- countSort.sort(arr);
- for(int i=0;i=begin;i--){
- j=getDigit(arr[i],d);
- bucket[count[j]-1]=arr[i];
- count[j]--;
- }
- for(i=begin,j=0;i<=end;i++,j++){
- arr[i]=bucket[i];
- }
- }
- }
-
- public void sort(int[] arr){
- if(arr==null || arr.length<2){
- return;
- }
- sort(arr,0,arr.length-1,maxBits(arr));
- }
-}
diff --git a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/RadixSortTest.java b/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/RadixSortTest.java
deleted file mode 100644
index a92f67c..0000000
--- a/BasicAlgorithm/src/code_03_othersSort/RadixSortTest.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,15 +0,0 @@
-package code_03_othersSort;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/11.
- */
-public class RadixSortTest {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- RadixSort sort=new RadixSort();
- int[] arr={3,44,38,5,47,15,36,26,27,28};
- sort.sort(arr);
- for(int i=0;i
-* [二、并发一致性问题](#二并发一致性问题)
- * [丢失修改](#丢失修改)
- * [读脏数据](#读脏数据)
- * [不可重复读](#不可重复读)
- * [幻影读](#幻影读)
-
-
-# 二、并发一致性问题
-
-在并发环境下,事务的隔离性很难保证,因此会出现很多并发一致性问题。
-
-## 丢失修改
-
-T1 和 T2 两个事务都对一个数据进行修改,T1 先修改,T2 随后修改,T2 的修改覆盖了 T1 的修改。
-
-
-
-## 读脏数据
-
-T1 修改一个数据,T2 随后读取这个数据。如果 T1 撤销了这次修改,那么 T2 读取的数据是脏数据。
-
-
-
-## 不可重复读
-
-T2 读取一个数据,T1 对该数据做了修改。如果 T2 再次读取这个数据,此时读取的结果和第一次读取的结果不同。
-
-
-
-## 幻影读
-
-T1 读取某个范围的数据,T2 在这个范围内插入新的数据,T1 再次读取这个范围的数据,此时读取的结果和和第一次读取的结果不同。
-
-
-
-----
-
-产生并发不一致性问题主要原因是破坏了事务的隔离性,解决方法是通过并发控制来保证隔离性。并发控制可以通过封锁来实现,但是封锁操作需要用户自己控制,相当复杂。数据库管理系统提供了事务的隔离级别,让用户以一种更轻松的方式处理并发一致性问题。
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git "a/DataBase/07ER \345\233\276.md" "b/DataBase/07ER \345\233\276.md"
deleted file mode 100644
index e68b34c..0000000
--- "a/DataBase/07ER \345\233\276.md"
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,49 +0,0 @@
-
-* [八、ER 图](#八er-图)
- * [实体的三种联系](#实体的三种联系)
- * [表示出现多次的关系](#表示出现多次的关系)
- * [联系的多向性](#联系的多向性)
- * [表示子类](#表示子类)
-
-
-# 八、ER 图
-
-Entity-Relationship,有三个组成部分:实体、属性、联系。
-
-用来进行关系型数据库系统的概念设计。
-
-## 实体的三种联系
-
-包含一对一,一对多,多对多三种。
-
-- 如果 A 到 B 是一对多关系,那么画个带箭头的线段指向 B;
-- 如果是一对一,画两个带箭头的线段;
-- 如果是多对多,画两个不带箭头的线段。
-
-下图的 Course 和 Student 是一对多的关系。
-
-
-
-## 表示出现多次的关系
-
-一个实体在联系出现几次,就要用几条线连接。
-
-下图表示一个课程的先修关系,先修关系出现两个 Course 实体,第一个是先修课程,后一个是后修课程,因此需要用两条线来表示这种关系。
-
-
-
-## 联系的多向性
-
-虽然老师可以开设多门课,并且可以教授多名学生,但是对于特定的学生和课程,只有一个老师教授,这就构成了一个三元联系。
-
-
-
-一般只使用二元联系,可以把多元联系转换为二元联系。
-
-
-
-## 表示子类
-
-用一个三角形和两条线来连接类和子类,与子类有关的属性和联系都连到子类上,而与父类和子类都有关的连到父类上。
-
-
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git "a/DataBase/09Leetcode-Database \351\242\230\350\247\243.md" "b/DataBase/09Leetcode-Database \351\242\230\350\247\243.md"
deleted file mode 100644
index 5b4a3d0..0000000
--- "a/DataBase/09Leetcode-Database \351\242\230\350\247\243.md"
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,950 +0,0 @@
-
-* [595. Big Countries](#595-big-countries)
-* [627. Swap Salary](#627-swap-salary)
-* [620. Not Boring Movies](#620-not-boring-movies)
-* [596. Classes More Than 5 Students](#596-classes-more-than-5-students)
-* [182. Duplicate Emails](#182-duplicate-emails)
-* [196. Delete Duplicate Emails](#196-delete-duplicate-emails)
-* [175. Combine Two Tables](#175-combine-two-tables)
-* [181. Employees Earning More Than Their Managers](#181-employees-earning-more-than-their-managers)
-* [183. Customers Who Never Order](#183-customers-who-never-order)
-* [184. Department Highest Salary](#184-department-highest-salary)
-* [176. Second Highest Salary](#176-second-highest-salary)
-* [177. Nth Highest Salary](#177-nth-highest-salary)
-* [178. Rank Scores](#178-rank-scores)
-* [180. Consecutive Numbers](#180-consecutive-numbers)
-* [626. Exchange Seats](#626-exchange-seats)
-
-
-
-# 595. Big Countries
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/big-countries/description/
-
-## Description
-
-```html
-+-----------------+------------+------------+--------------+---------------+
-| name | continent | area | population | gdp |
-+-----------------+------------+------------+--------------+---------------+
-| Afghanistan | Asia | 652230 | 25500100 | 20343000 |
-| Albania | Europe | 28748 | 2831741 | 12960000 |
-| Algeria | Africa | 2381741 | 37100000 | 188681000 |
-| Andorra | Europe | 468 | 78115 | 3712000 |
-| Angola | Africa | 1246700 | 20609294 | 100990000 |
-+-----------------+------------+------------+--------------+---------------+
-```
-
-查找面积超过 3,000,000 或者人口数超过 25,000,000 的国家。
-
-```html
-+--------------+-------------+--------------+
-| name | population | area |
-+--------------+-------------+--------------+
-| Afghanistan | 25500100 | 652230 |
-| Algeria | 37100000 | 2381741 |
-+--------------+-------------+--------------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS World;
-CREATE TABLE World ( NAME VARCHAR ( 255 ), continent VARCHAR ( 255 ), area INT, population INT, gdp INT );
-INSERT INTO World ( NAME, continent, area, population, gdp )
-VALUES
- ( 'Afghanistan', 'Asia', '652230', '25500100', '203430000' ),
- ( 'Albania', 'Europe', '28748', '2831741', '129600000' ),
- ( 'Algeria', 'Africa', '2381741', '37100000', '1886810000' ),
- ( 'Andorra', 'Europe', '468', '78115', '37120000' ),
- ( 'Angola', 'Africa', '1246700', '20609294', '1009900000' );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-```sql
-SELECT name,
- population,
- area
-FROM
- World
-WHERE
- area > 3000000
- OR population > 25000000;
-```
-
-# 627. Swap Salary
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/swap-salary/description/
-
-## Description
-
-```html
-| id | name | sex | salary |
-|----|------|-----|--------|
-| 1 | A | m | 2500 |
-| 2 | B | f | 1500 |
-| 3 | C | m | 5500 |
-| 4 | D | f | 500 |
-```
-
-只用一个 SQL 查询,将 sex 字段反转。
-
-```html
-| id | name | sex | salary |
-|----|------|-----|--------|
-| 1 | A | f | 2500 |
-| 2 | B | m | 1500 |
-| 3 | C | f | 5500 |
-| 4 | D | m | 500 |
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS salary;
-CREATE TABLE salary ( id INT, NAME VARCHAR ( 100 ), sex CHAR ( 1 ), salary INT );
-INSERT INTO salary ( id, NAME, sex, salary )
-VALUES
- ( '1', 'A', 'm', '2500' ),
- ( '2', 'B', 'f', '1500' ),
- ( '3', 'C', 'm', '5500' ),
- ( '4', 'D', 'f', '500' );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-```sql
-UPDATE salary
-SET sex = CHAR ( ASCII(sex) ^ ASCII( 'm' ) ^ ASCII( 'f' ) );
-```
-
-# 620. Not Boring Movies
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/not-boring-movies/description/
-
-## Description
-
-
-```html
-+---------+-----------+--------------+-----------+
-| id | movie | description | rating |
-+---------+-----------+--------------+-----------+
-| 1 | War | great 3D | 8.9 |
-| 2 | Science | fiction | 8.5 |
-| 3 | irish | boring | 6.2 |
-| 4 | Ice song | Fantacy | 8.6 |
-| 5 | House card| Interesting| 9.1 |
-+---------+-----------+--------------+-----------+
-```
-
-查找 id 为奇数,并且 description 不是 boring 的电影,按 rating 降序。
-
-```html
-+---------+-----------+--------------+-----------+
-| id | movie | description | rating |
-+---------+-----------+--------------+-----------+
-| 5 | House card| Interesting| 9.1 |
-| 1 | War | great 3D | 8.9 |
-+---------+-----------+--------------+-----------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS cinema;
-CREATE TABLE cinema ( id INT, movie VARCHAR ( 255 ), description VARCHAR ( 255 ), rating FLOAT ( 2, 1 ) );
-INSERT INTO cinema ( id, movie, description, rating )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 'War', 'great 3D', 8.9 ),
- ( 2, 'Science', 'fiction', 8.5 ),
- ( 3, 'irish', 'boring', 6.2 ),
- ( 4, 'Ice song', 'Fantacy', 8.6 ),
- ( 5, 'House card', 'Interesting', 9.1 );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- *
-FROM
- cinema
-WHERE
- id % 2 = 1
- AND description != 'boring'
-ORDER BY
- rating DESC;
-```
-
-# 596. Classes More Than 5 Students
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/classes-more-than-5-students/description/
-
-## Description
-
-```html
-+---------+------------+
-| student | class |
-+---------+------------+
-| A | Math |
-| B | English |
-| C | Math |
-| D | Biology |
-| E | Math |
-| F | Computer |
-| G | Math |
-| H | Math |
-| I | Math |
-+---------+------------+
-```
-
-查找有五名及以上 student 的 class。
-
-```html
-+---------+
-| class |
-+---------+
-| Math |
-+---------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS courses;
-CREATE TABLE courses ( student VARCHAR ( 255 ), class VARCHAR ( 255 ) );
-INSERT INTO courses ( student, class )
-VALUES
- ( 'A', 'Math' ),
- ( 'B', 'English' ),
- ( 'C', 'Math' ),
- ( 'D', 'Biology' ),
- ( 'E', 'Math' ),
- ( 'F', 'Computer' ),
- ( 'G', 'Math' ),
- ( 'H', 'Math' ),
- ( 'I', 'Math' );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- class
-FROM
- courses
-GROUP BY
- class
-HAVING
- count( DISTINCT student ) >= 5;
-```
-
-# 182. Duplicate Emails
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/duplicate-emails/description/
-
-## Description
-
-邮件地址表:
-
-```html
-+----+---------+
-| Id | Email |
-+----+---------+
-| 1 | a@b.com |
-| 2 | c@d.com |
-| 3 | a@b.com |
-+----+---------+
-```
-
-查找重复的邮件地址:
-
-```html
-+---------+
-| Email |
-+---------+
-| a@b.com |
-+---------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS Person;
-CREATE TABLE Person ( Id INT, Email VARCHAR ( 255 ) );
-INSERT INTO Person ( Id, Email )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 'a@b.com' ),
- ( 2, 'c@d.com' ),
- ( 3, 'a@b.com' );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- Email
-FROM
- Person
-GROUP BY
- Email
-HAVING
- COUNT( * ) >= 2;
-```
-
-# 196. Delete Duplicate Emails
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/delete-duplicate-emails/description/
-
-## Description
-
-邮件地址表:
-
-```html
-+----+---------+
-| Id | Email |
-+----+---------+
-| 1 | a@b.com |
-| 2 | c@d.com |
-| 3 | a@b.com |
-+----+---------+
-```
-
-删除重复的邮件地址:
-
-```html
-+----+------------------+
-| Id | Email |
-+----+------------------+
-| 1 | john@example.com |
-| 2 | bob@example.com |
-+----+------------------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-与 182 相同。
-
-## Solution
-
-连接:
-
-```sql
-DELETE p1
-FROM
- Person p1,
- Person p2
-WHERE
- p1.Email = p2.Email
- AND p1.Id > p2.Id
-```
-
-子查询:
-
-```sql
-DELETE
-FROM
- Person
-WHERE
- id NOT IN ( SELECT id FROM ( SELECT min( id ) AS id FROM Person GROUP BY email ) AS m );
-```
-
-应该注意的是上述解法额外嵌套了一个 SELECT 语句,如果不这么做,会出现错误:You can't specify target table 'Person' for update in FROM clause。以下演示了这种错误解法。
-
-```sql
-DELETE
-FROM
- Person
-WHERE
- id NOT IN ( SELECT min( id ) AS id FROM Person GROUP BY email );
-```
-
-参考:[pMySQL Error 1093 - Can't specify target table for update in FROM clause](https://stackoverflow.com/questions/45494/mysql-error-1093-cant-specify-target-table-for-update-in-from-clause)
-
-# 175. Combine Two Tables
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/combine-two-tables/description/
-
-## Description
-
-Person 表:
-
-```html
-+-------------+---------+
-| Column Name | Type |
-+-------------+---------+
-| PersonId | int |
-| FirstName | varchar |
-| LastName | varchar |
-+-------------+---------+
-PersonId is the primary key column for this table.
-```
-
-Address 表:
-
-```html
-+-------------+---------+
-| Column Name | Type |
-+-------------+---------+
-| AddressId | int |
-| PersonId | int |
-| City | varchar |
-| State | varchar |
-+-------------+---------+
-AddressId is the primary key column for this table.
-```
-
-查找 FirstName, LastName, City, State 数据,而不管一个用户有没有填地址信息。
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS Person;
-CREATE TABLE Person ( PersonId INT, FirstName VARCHAR ( 255 ), LastName VARCHAR ( 255 ) );
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS Address;
-CREATE TABLE Address ( AddressId INT, PersonId INT, City VARCHAR ( 255 ), State VARCHAR ( 255 ) );
-INSERT INTO Person ( PersonId, LastName, FirstName )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 'Wang', 'Allen' );
-INSERT INTO Address ( AddressId, PersonId, City, State )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 2, 'New York City', 'New York' );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-使用左外连接。
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- FirstName,
- LastName,
- City,
- State
-FROM
- Person P
- LEFT JOIN Address A
- ON P.PersonId = A.PersonId;
-```
-
-# 181. Employees Earning More Than Their Managers
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/employees-earning-more-than-their-managers/description/
-
-## Description
-
-Employee 表:
-
-```html
-+----+-------+--------+-----------+
-| Id | Name | Salary | ManagerId |
-+----+-------+--------+-----------+
-| 1 | Joe | 70000 | 3 |
-| 2 | Henry | 80000 | 4 |
-| 3 | Sam | 60000 | NULL |
-| 4 | Max | 90000 | NULL |
-+----+-------+--------+-----------+
-```
-
-查找薪资大于其经理薪资的员工信息。
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS Employee;
-CREATE TABLE Employee ( Id INT, NAME VARCHAR ( 255 ), Salary INT, ManagerId INT );
-INSERT INTO Employee ( Id, NAME, Salary, ManagerId )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 'Joe', 70000, 3 ),
- ( 2, 'Henry', 80000, 4 ),
- ( 3, 'Sam', 60000, NULL ),
- ( 4, 'Max', 90000, NULL );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- E1.NAME AS Employee
-FROM
- Employee E1
- INNER JOIN Employee E2
- ON E1.ManagerId = E2.Id
- AND E1.Salary > E2.Salary;
-```
-
-# 183. Customers Who Never Order
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/customers-who-never-order/description/
-
-## Description
-
-Curstomers 表:
-
-```html
-+----+-------+
-| Id | Name |
-+----+-------+
-| 1 | Joe |
-| 2 | Henry |
-| 3 | Sam |
-| 4 | Max |
-+----+-------+
-```
-
-Orders 表:
-
-```html
-+----+------------+
-| Id | CustomerId |
-+----+------------+
-| 1 | 3 |
-| 2 | 1 |
-+----+------------+
-```
-
-查找没有订单的顾客信息:
-
-```html
-+-----------+
-| Customers |
-+-----------+
-| Henry |
-| Max |
-+-----------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS Customers;
-CREATE TABLE Customers ( Id INT, NAME VARCHAR ( 255 ) );
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS Orders;
-CREATE TABLE Orders ( Id INT, CustomerId INT );
-INSERT INTO Customers ( Id, NAME )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 'Joe' ),
- ( 2, 'Henry' ),
- ( 3, 'Sam' ),
- ( 4, 'Max' );
-INSERT INTO Orders ( Id, CustomerId )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 3 ),
- ( 2, 1 );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-左外链接
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- C.Name AS Customers
-FROM
- Customers C
- LEFT JOIN Orders O
- ON C.Id = O.CustomerId
-WHERE
- O.CustomerId IS NULL;
-```
-
-子查询
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- Name AS Customers
-FROM
- Customers
-WHERE
- Id NOT IN ( SELECT CustomerId FROM Orders );
-```
-
-# 184. Department Highest Salary
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/department-highest-salary/description/
-
-## Description
-
-Employee 表:
-
-```html
-+----+-------+--------+--------------+
-| Id | Name | Salary | DepartmentId |
-+----+-------+--------+--------------+
-| 1 | Joe | 70000 | 1 |
-| 2 | Henry | 80000 | 2 |
-| 3 | Sam | 60000 | 2 |
-| 4 | Max | 90000 | 1 |
-+----+-------+--------+--------------+
-```
-
-Department 表:
-
-```html
-+----+----------+
-| Id | Name |
-+----+----------+
-| 1 | IT |
-| 2 | Sales |
-+----+----------+
-```
-
-查找一个 Department 中收入最高者的信息:
-
-```html
-+------------+----------+--------+
-| Department | Employee | Salary |
-+------------+----------+--------+
-| IT | Max | 90000 |
-| Sales | Henry | 80000 |
-+------------+----------+--------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE IF EXISTS Employee;
-CREATE TABLE Employee ( Id INT, NAME VARCHAR ( 255 ), Salary INT, DepartmentId INT );
-DROP TABLE IF EXISTS Department;
-CREATE TABLE Department ( Id INT, NAME VARCHAR ( 255 ) );
-INSERT INTO Employee ( Id, NAME, Salary, DepartmentId )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 'Joe', 70000, 1 ),
- ( 2, 'Henry', 80000, 2 ),
- ( 3, 'Sam', 60000, 2 ),
- ( 4, 'Max', 90000, 1 );
-INSERT INTO Department ( Id, NAME )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 'IT' ),
- ( 2, 'Sales' );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-创建一个临时表,包含了部门员工的最大薪资。可以对部门进行分组,然后使用 MAX() 汇总函数取得最大薪资。
-
-之后使用连接找到一个部门中薪资等于临时表中最大薪资的员工。
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- D.NAME Department,
- E.NAME Employee,
- E.Salary
-FROM
- Employee E,
- Department D,
- ( SELECT DepartmentId, MAX( Salary ) Salary FROM Employee GROUP BY DepartmentId ) M
-WHERE
- E.DepartmentId = D.Id
- AND E.DepartmentId = M.DepartmentId
- AND E.Salary = M.Salary;
-```
-
-# 176. Second Highest Salary
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/second-highest-salary/description/
-
-## Description
-
-```html
-+----+--------+
-| Id | Salary |
-+----+--------+
-| 1 | 100 |
-| 2 | 200 |
-| 3 | 300 |
-+----+--------+
-```
-
-查找工资第二高的员工。
-
-```html
-+---------------------+
-| SecondHighestSalary |
-+---------------------+
-| 200 |
-+---------------------+
-```
-
-没有找到返回 null 而不是不返回数据。
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS Employee;
-CREATE TABLE Employee ( Id INT, Salary INT );
-INSERT INTO Employee ( Id, Salary )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 100 ),
- ( 2, 200 ),
- ( 3, 300 );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-为了在没有查找到数据时返回 null,需要在查询结果外面再套一层 SELECT。
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- ( SELECT DISTINCT Salary FROM Employee ORDER BY Salary DESC LIMIT 1, 1 ) SecondHighestSalary;
-```
-
-# 177. Nth Highest Salary
-
-## Description
-
-查找工资第 N 高的员工。
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-同 176。
-
-## Solution
-
-```sql
-CREATE FUNCTION getNthHighestSalary ( N INT ) RETURNS INT BEGIN
-
-SET N = N - 1;
-RETURN ( SELECT ( SELECT DISTINCT Salary FROM Employee ORDER BY Salary DESC LIMIT N, 1 ) );
-
-END
-```
-
-# 178. Rank Scores
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/rank-scores/description/
-
-## Description
-
-得分表:
-
-```html
-+----+-------+
-| Id | Score |
-+----+-------+
-| 1 | 3.50 |
-| 2 | 3.65 |
-| 3 | 4.00 |
-| 4 | 3.85 |
-| 5 | 4.00 |
-| 6 | 3.65 |
-+----+-------+
-```
-
-将得分排序,并统计排名。
-
-```html
-+-------+------+
-| Score | Rank |
-+-------+------+
-| 4.00 | 1 |
-| 4.00 | 1 |
-| 3.85 | 2 |
-| 3.65 | 3 |
-| 3.65 | 3 |
-| 3.50 | 4 |
-+-------+------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS Scores;
-CREATE TABLE Scores ( Id INT, Score DECIMAL ( 3, 2 ) );
-INSERT INTO Scores ( Id, Score )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 3.5 ),
- ( 2, 3.65 ),
- ( 3, 4.0 ),
- ( 4, 3.85 ),
- ( 5, 4.0 ),
- ( 6, 3.65 );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- S1.score,
- COUNT( DISTINCT S2.score ) Rank
-FROM
- Scores S1
- INNER JOIN Scores S2
- ON S1.score <= S2.score
-GROUP BY
- S1.id
-ORDER BY
- S1.score DESC;
-```
-
-# 180. Consecutive Numbers
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/consecutive-numbers/description/
-
-## Description
-
-数字表:
-
-```html
-+----+-----+
-| Id | Num |
-+----+-----+
-| 1 | 1 |
-| 2 | 1 |
-| 3 | 1 |
-| 4 | 2 |
-| 5 | 1 |
-| 6 | 2 |
-| 7 | 2 |
-+----+-----+
-```
-
-查找连续出现三次的数字。
-
-```html
-+-----------------+
-| ConsecutiveNums |
-+-----------------+
-| 1 |
-+-----------------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS LOGS;
-CREATE TABLE LOGS ( Id INT, Num INT );
-INSERT INTO LOGS ( Id, Num )
-VALUES
- ( 1, 1 ),
- ( 2, 1 ),
- ( 3, 1 ),
- ( 4, 2 ),
- ( 5, 1 ),
- ( 6, 2 ),
- ( 7, 2 );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- DISTINCT L1.num ConsecutiveNums
-FROM
- Logs L1,
- Logs L2,
- Logs L3
-WHERE L1.id = l2.id - 1
- AND L2.id = L3.id - 1
- AND L1.num = L2.num
- AND l2.num = l3.num;
-```
-
-# 626. Exchange Seats
-
-https://leetcode.com/problems/exchange-seats/description/
-
-## Description
-
-seat 表存储着座位对应的学生。
-
-```html
-+---------+---------+
-| id | student |
-+---------+---------+
-| 1 | Abbot |
-| 2 | Doris |
-| 3 | Emerson |
-| 4 | Green |
-| 5 | Jeames |
-+---------+---------+
-```
-
-要求交换相邻座位的两个学生,如果最后一个座位是奇数,那么不交换这个座位上的学生。
-
-```html
-+---------+---------+
-| id | student |
-+---------+---------+
-| 1 | Doris |
-| 2 | Abbot |
-| 3 | Green |
-| 4 | Emerson |
-| 5 | Jeames |
-+---------+---------+
-```
-
-## SQL Schema
-
-```sql
-DROP TABLE
-IF
- EXISTS seat;
-CREATE TABLE seat ( id INT, student VARCHAR ( 255 ) );
-INSERT INTO seat ( id, student )
-VALUES
- ( '1', 'Abbot' ),
- ( '2', 'Doris' ),
- ( '3', 'Emerson' ),
- ( '4', 'Green' ),
- ( '5', 'Jeames' );
-```
-
-## Solution
-
-使用多个 union。
-
-```sql
-SELECT
- s1.id - 1 AS id,
- s1.student
-FROM
- seat s1
-WHERE
- s1.id MOD 2 = 0 UNION
-SELECT
- s2.id + 1 AS id,
- s2.student
-FROM
- seat s2
-WHERE
- s2.id MOD 2 = 1
- AND s2.id != ( SELECT max( s3.id ) FROM seat s3 ) UNION
-SELECT
- s4.id AS id,
- s4.student
-FROM
- seat s4
-WHERE
- s4.id MOD 2 = 1
- AND s4.id = ( SELECT max( s5.id ) FROM seat s5 )
-ORDER BY
- id;
-```
diff --git "a/DataBase/10\347\264\242\345\274\225.md" "b/DataBase/10\347\264\242\345\274\225.md"
deleted file mode 100644
index 7f02392..0000000
--- "a/DataBase/10\347\264\242\345\274\225.md"
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,223 +0,0 @@
-
-* [一、索引](#一索引)
- * [索引的目的](#索引的目的)
- * [索引的原理](#索引的原理)
- * [B+ Tree](#b-tree-原理)
- * [MySQL 索引分类](#mysql-索引)
- * [索引设计优化](#索引设计优化)
- * [索引的优点](#索引的优点)
- * [索引的使用条件](#索引的使用条件)
-
-# 一、索引
-
-## 索引的目的
-索引的目的在于**提高查询效率,可以类比字典**,
-如果要查“mysql”这个单词,我们肯定需要定位到m字母,
-然后从下往下找到y字母,再找到剩下的sql。
-如果没有索引,那么你可能需要把所有单词看一遍才能找到你想要的,显然这样的效率很低。
-
-## 索引的原理
-
-我们的生活中随处可见索引的例子,如字典,时刻表等。它们的原理都是一样的,**通过不断的缩小想要获得数据的范围来筛选出最终想要的结果,同时把随机的事件变成顺序的事件**,
-也就是我们总是通过同一种查找方式来锁定数据。
-
-数据库实现比较复杂,数据保存在磁盘上,而为了提高性能,每次可以把部分数据读入内存来计算,
-因为我们知道访问磁盘的成本大概是访问内存的十万倍左右,所以简单的搜索树难以满足复杂的应用场景。
-### 磁盘IO与预读
-磁盘读取数据靠的是**机械运动**,每次读取数据花费的时间可以分为**寻道时间、旋转延迟、传输时间**三个部分:
-
-考虑到磁盘IO是非常高昂的操作,计算机操作系统做了一些优化,当一次IO时,不光把当前磁盘地址的数据,而是把相邻的数据也都读取到内存缓冲区内,
-因为**局部预读性原理**告诉我们,当计算机访问一个地址的数据的时候,与其相邻的数据也会很快被访问到。
-
-每一次IO读取的数据我们称之为一页(page)。具体一页有多大数据跟操作系统有关,一般为4k或8k,也就是我们读取一页内的数据时候,实际上才发生了一次IO,这个理论对于索引的数据结构设计非常有帮助。
-
-## B+ Tree
-每次查找数据时把磁盘IO次数控制在一个很小的数量级,最好是常数数量级。那么我们就想到如果一个高度可控的多路搜索树是否能满足需求呢?就这样,b+树应运而生。
-
-### 1. 数据结构
-
-B Tree 是平衡多路查找树(查找路径不止2条)。B+树是一颗查找树,那么是遵循左小右大的原则,并且所有叶子节点位于同一层。
-
-B+ Tree 是B Tree的升级版,是基于 B Tree 和叶子节点顺序访问指针进行实现,它具有 B Tree 的平衡性,并且通过顺序访问指针来提高区间查询的性能。
-
-B+跟B Tree不同B+Tree的**非叶子节点不保存关键字记录的指针,只进行数据索引**,只有叶子节点保存数据,这样使得B+树每个非叶子节点所能保存的关键字大大增加。
-
-在 B+ Tree 中,一个节点中的 key 从左到右非递减排列,如果某个指针的左右相邻 key 分别是 keyi 和 keyi+1,且不为 null,则该指针指向节点的所有 key 大于等于 keyi 且小于等于 keyi+1。
-
-
-
-### 2. 操作
-
-进行查找操作时,首先在根节点进行二分查找,找到一个 key 所在的指针,然后递归地在指针所指向的节点进行查找。直到查找到叶子节点,然后在叶子节点上进行二分查找,找出 key 所对应的 data。
-
-插入删除操作会破坏平衡树的平衡性,因此在插入删除操作之后,需要对树进行一个分裂、合并、旋转等操作来维护平衡性。
-
-
-### 3. B+树的性质
-1. 通过分析,我们知道IO次数取决于B+数的高度h,假设当前数据表的数据为N,每个磁盘块的数据项的数量是m,则有h=log(m+1)N,
-当数据量N一定的情况下,m越大,h越小;而m = 磁盘块的大小 / 数据项的大小,由于磁盘块的大小是固定的,也就是一个数据页的大小,
-如果数据项占的空间越小,数据项(m)的数量就越多,树的高度越小。
-
-这就是为什么每个数据项,即索引字段要尽量的小,比如int占4字节,要比bigint8字节少一半。
-这也是为什么B+树要求把真实的数据放到叶子节点而不是内层节点,一旦放到内层节点,磁盘块的数据项会大幅度下降,导致树增大。
-
-2. 当B+树的数据项是复合的数据结构,比如(name,age,sex)的时候,B+数是按照**从左到右**的顺序来建立搜索树的,比如当(张三,20,F)这样的数据来检索的时候,
-B+树会优先比较name来确定下一步的所搜方向,如果name相同再依次比较age和sex,最后得到检索的数据;
-但当(20,F)这样的没有name的数据来的时候,b+树就不知道下一步该查哪个节点,因为建立搜索树的时候name就是第一个比较因子,
-必须要先根据name来搜索才能知道下一步去哪里查询。比如当(张三,F)这样的数据来检索时,B+树可以用name来指定搜索方向,但下一个字段age的缺失,所以只能把名字等于张三的数据都找到,
-然后再匹配性别是F的数据了, 这个是非常重要的性质,即**索引的最左匹配特性**。
-
-### 4. B+树两种搜索方法
-1. 一种是按叶节点自己拉起的链表顺序搜索。
-2. 一种是从根节点开始搜索,和B树类似,不过如果非叶节点的关键码等于给定值,搜索并不停止,而是继续沿右指针,一直查到叶节点上的关键码。所以无论搜索是否成功,都将走完树的所有层。
-
-### 5. 与红黑树的比较
-
-红黑树 和 B+树的用途有什么区别?
-- 红黑树多用在内部排序,即全放在内存中的,STL的map和set的内部实现就是红黑树。
-
-- B+树多用于外存上时,B+也被成为一个磁盘友好的数据结构。
-
-文件系统及数据库系统普遍采用 B+ Tree 作为索引结构,主要有以下原因:
-
-(一)更少的查找次数
-
-平衡树查找操作的时间复杂度等于树高 h,而树高大致为 O(h)=O(logdN),其中 d 为每个节点的出度。
-
-红黑树的出度为 2,而 B+ Tree 的出度一般都非常大,所以红黑树的树高 h 很明显比 B+ Tree 大非常多,查找的次数也就更多。
-
-(二)利用磁盘预读特性
-
-为了减少磁盘 I/O,磁盘往往不是严格按需读取,而是每次都会预读。预读过程中,磁盘进行顺序读取,顺序读取不需要进行磁盘寻道,并且只需要很短的旋转时间,速度会非常快。
-
-操作系统一般将内存和磁盘分割成固态大小的块,每一块称为一页,内存与磁盘以页为单位交换数据。数据库系统将索引的一个节点的大小设置为页的大小,使得一次 I/O 就能完全载入一个节点。并且可以利用预读特性,相邻的节点也能够被预先载入。
-
-(三)方便地遍历所有数据
-
-B+树只要遍历叶子结点就可以遍历到所有数据,而不同于其他树形数据结构。
-
-
-
-
-## MySQL 索引分类
-
-索引是在存储引擎层实现的,而不是在服务器层实现的,所以不同存储引擎具有不同的索引类型和实现,MySQL主要的存储引擎是MyISAM和InnoDB。Mysql索引中使用的最多的就是B+Tree索引 和 哈希索引 。
-
-### 1. B+Tree 索引
-
-是大多数 MySQL 存储引擎的默认索引类型。
-
-因为不再需要进行全表扫描,只需要对树进行搜索即可,所以查找速度快很多。
-
-除了用于查找,还可以用于排序和分组。
-
-可以指定多个列作为索引列,多个索引列共同组成键。
-
-适用于全键值、键值范围和键前缀查找,其中**键前缀查找只适用于最左前缀查找**。如果不是按照索引列的顺序进行查找,则无法使用索引。
-
-InnoDB 的 B+Tree 索引分为主索引和辅助索引。主索引的叶子节点 data 域记录着完整的数据记录,这种索引方式被称为聚簇索引。因为无法把数据行存放在两个不同的地方,所以一个表只能有一个聚簇索引。
-
-
-
-辅助索引的叶子节点的 data 域记录着主键的值,因此在使用辅助索引进行查找时,需要先查找到主键值,然后再到主索引中进行查找。
-
-
-
-### 2. 哈希索引
-
-哈希索引底层的数据结构是哈希表,能以 O(1) 时间进行查找,但是失去了有序性;因此在绝大多数需求为单条记录查询的时候,可以选择哈希索引,查询性能最快。
-
-- 无法用于排序与分组;
-- 只支持精确查找,无法用于部分查找和范围查找。
-
-InnoDB 存储引擎有一个特殊的功能叫“自适应哈希索引”,当某个索引值被使用的非常频繁时,会在 B+Tree 索引之上再创建一个哈希索引,这样就让 B+Tree 索引具有哈希索引的一些优点,比如快速的哈希查找。
-
-### 3. 全文索引
-
-MyISAM 存储引擎支持全文索引,用于查找文本中的关键词,而不是直接比较是否相等。
-
-查找条件使用 MATCH AGAINST,而不是普通的 WHERE。
-
-全文索引使用倒排索引实现,它记录着关键词到其所在文档的映射。
-
-InnoDB 存储引擎在 MySQL 5.6.4 版本中也开始支持全文索引。
-
-### 4. 空间数据索引
-
-MyISAM 存储引擎支持空间数据索引(R-Tree),可以用于地理数据存储。空间数据索引会从所有维度来索引数据,可以有效地使用任意维度来进行组合查询。
-
-必须使用 GIS 相关的函数来维护数据。
-
-## 索引设计优化
-
-### 1. 独立的列
-
-在进行查询时,索引列不能是表达式的一部分,也不能是函数的参数,否则无法使用索引。
-
-例如下面的查询不能使用 actor_id 列的索引:
-
-```sql
-SELECT actor_id FROM sakila.actor WHERE actor_id + 1 = 5;
-```
-
-### 2. 多列索引
-
-在需要使用多个列作为条件进行查询时,使用多列索引比使用多个单列索引性能更好。例如下面的语句中,最好把 actor_id 和 film_id 设置为多列索引。
-
-```sql
-SELECT film_id, actor_ id FROM sakila.film_actor
-WHERE actor_id = 1 AND film_id = 1;
-```
-
-### 3. 索引列的顺序
-
-让选择性最强的索引列放在前面。
-
-索引的选择性是指:不重复的索引值和记录总数的比值。最大值为 1,此时每个记录都有唯一的索引与其对应。选择性越高,查询效率也越高。
-
-例如下面显示的结果中 customer_id 的选择性比 staff_id 更高,因此最好把 customer_id 列放在多列索引的前面。
-
-```sql
-SELECT COUNT(DISTINCT staff_id)/COUNT(*) AS staff_id_selectivity,
-COUNT(DISTINCT customer_id)/COUNT(*) AS customer_id_selectivity,
-COUNT(*)
-FROM payment;
-```
-
-```html
- staff_id_selectivity: 0.0001
-customer_id_selectivity: 0.0373
- COUNT(*): 16049
-```
-
-### 4. 前缀索引
-
-对于 BLOB、TEXT 和 VARCHAR 类型的列,必须使用前缀索引,只索引开始的部分字符。
-
-对于前缀长度的选取需要根据索引选择性来确定。
-
-### 5. 覆盖索引
-
-索引包含所有需要查询的字段的值。
-
-具有以下优点:
-
-- 索引通常远小于数据行的大小,只读取索引能大大减少数据访问量。
-- 一些存储引擎(例如 MyISAM)在内存中只缓存索引,而数据依赖于操作系统来缓存。因此,只访问索引可以不使用系统调用(通常比较费时)。
-- 对于 InnoDB 引擎,若辅助索引能够覆盖查询,则无需访问主索引。
-
-## 索引的优点
-
-- 大大减少了服务器需要扫描的数据行数。
-
-- 帮助服务器避免进行排序和分组,以及避免创建临时表(B+Tree 索引是有序的,可以用于 ORDER BY 和 GROUP BY 操作。临时表主要是在排序和分组过程中创建,因为不需要排序和分组,也就不需要创建临时表)。
-
-- 将随机 I/O 变为顺序 I/O(B+Tree 索引是有序的,会将相邻的数据都存储在一起)。
-
-## 索引的使用条件
-
-- 对于非常小的表、大部分情况下简单的全表扫描比建立索引更高效;
-
-- 对于中到大型的表,索引就非常有效;
-
-- 但是对于特大型的表,建立和维护索引的代价将会随之增长。这种情况下,需要用到一种技术可以直接区分出需要查询的一组数据,而不是一条记录一条记录地匹配,例如可以使用分区技术。
\ No newline at end of file
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-
-* [二、查询性能优化](#二查询性能优化)
- * [使用 Explain 进行分析](#使用-explain-进行分析)
- * [优化数据访问](#优化数据访问)
- * [重构查询方式](#重构查询方式)
-
-# 二、查询性能优化
-
-## 使用 Explain 进行分析
-
-Explain 用来分析 SELECT 查询语句,开发人员可以通过分析 Explain 结果来优化查询语句。
-
-比较重要的字段有:
-
-- select_type : 查询类型,有简单查询、联合查询、子查询等
-- key : 使用的索引
-- rows : 扫描的行数
-
-## 优化数据访问
-
-### 1. 是否想数据库请求了不需要的数据
-- 查询不需要的记录
-
- 实际上MySQL是**先返回全部结果集合再进行计算**,最有效的办法是
- 在这样的查询后面加上LIMIT。
-
-
-- 多表关联时返回全部列
-
-- 总是取出全部列
-
-严禁使用 SELECT *的写法
-
-- 重复查询相同的数据
-
-比较好的办法是合理地使用缓存
-
-### 2. MySQL是否在扫描额外的记录
-查询开销的三个指标如下:
-响应时间、扫描的行数和返回的行数
-
-响应时间= 服务时间+排队时间
-
-服务时间:数据库处理这个查询真正花费了多长时间;
-
-排队时间:服务器因为等待某些资源而没有真正执行查询的时间(可能是IO操作也可能是等待行锁等等);
-
-当看到一个查询的响应时间的时候,首先问问自己,这个响应时间是不是一个合理的值呢?
-使用“快速上线估计”法来估算查询的响应时间。
-
-访问类型:
-
-- 全表扫描
-- 索引扫描
-- 范围扫描
-- 唯一索引查询
-- 常数引用
-
-一般MySQL能够如下三种方式使用WHERE条件,从好到坏依次为:
-
-- 存储引擎层,在索引中使用WHERE条件来过滤不匹配的记录。
-- MySQL服务器层,使用索引覆盖扫描来返回记录,直接从索引中过滤不需要的记录并返回
-命中的结果。
-- MySQL服务器层,从数据表中返回数据,然后过滤不满足条件的记录。
-
-
-## 重构查询方式
-
-### 1. 切分大查询
-
-一个大查询如果一次性执行的话,可能一次锁住很多数据、占满整个事务日志、耗尽系统资源、阻塞很多小的但重要的查询。
-将一个大的DELETE语句切分成多个较小的查询可以尽可能小地影响MySQL的性能,同时还可以减少MySQL复制的延迟。
-
-
-例如:
-```sql
-DELEFT FROM messages WHERE create < DATE_SUB(NOW(), INTERVAL 3 MONTH);
-```
-
-```sql
-rows_affected = 0
-do {
- rows_affected = do_query(
- "DELETE FROM messages WHERE create < DATE_SUB(NOW(), INTERVAL 3 MONTH) LIMIT 10000")
-} while rows_affected > 0
-```
-如果每次删除数据后,都暂停一会儿再做下一次删除,这样也可以将服务器上原本一次性的压力分散到一个很长的时间段中,
-就可以大大降低对服务器的影响和减少删除时锁的持有时间。
-### 2. 分解大连接查询
-
-将一个大连接查询分解成对每一个表进行一次单表查询,然后在应用程序中进行关联,这样做的好处有:
-
-- 让缓存更高效。对于连接查询,如果其中一个表发生变化,那么整个查询缓存就无法使用。而分解后的多个查询,即使其中一个表发生变化,对其它表的查询缓存依然可以使用。
-- 分解成多个单表查询,这些单表查询的缓存结果更可能被其它查询使用到,从而减少冗余记录的查询。
-- 减少锁竞争;
-- 在应用层进行连接,可以更容易对数据库进行拆分,从而更容易做到高性能和可伸缩。
-- 查询本身效率也可能会有所提升。例如下面的例子中,使用 IN() 代替连接查询,可以让 MySQL 按照 ID 顺序进行查询,**这可能比随机的连接要更高效。**
-
-```sql
-SELECT * FROM tab
-JOIN tag_post ON tag_post.tag_id=tag.id
-JOIN post ON tag_post.post_id=post.id
-WHERE tag.tag='mysql';
-```
-
-```sql
-SELECT * FROM tag WHERE tag='mysql';
-SELECT * FROM tag_post WHERE tag_id=1234;
-SELECT * FROM post WHERE post.id IN (123,456,567,9098,8904);
-```
-## 查询执行的基础
-查询执行的路径:
-1. 客户端发送一条查询给服务器
-2. 服务器先检查查询缓存,如果命中了缓存,则立刻返回存储在缓存中的结果,否则进入下一阶段。
-3. 服务器进行SQL的解析、预处理,再由优化器生成对应的执行计划。
-4. MySQL根据优化器生成的执行计划,调用存储引擎的API来执行查询。
-5. 将结果返回给客户端。
-### MySQL客户端/服务器通信协议
-客户端和服务器之间的通信协议是“半双工”的,这种协议让MySQL通信简单快速,但也在很多地方
-限制了MySQL。
-
-多数连接MySQL的库函数都可以获得全部结果集并缓存到内存里,还可以逐行获取需要的数据。
-MySQL通常需要等所有的数据都已经发送给客户端才能释放这条查询所占用的
-资源,所以接收全部结果并缓存通常可以减少服务器的压力,让查询能够早点结束,早点释放相应的资源。
-
-### 查询缓存
-MySQL在解析查询语句之前,会优先检查这个查询是否命中查询缓存中的数据。
-当恰好命中查询缓存的时候,在返回查询结果之前MySQL会检查一次用户权限。
-若权限没有问题,会跳过其他阶段,直接从缓存中拿到结果并返回给客户端。这种情况下,查询不会被解析,
-也不用生成执行计划。
-### 查询优化处理
-这一步会将SQL转换成一个执行计划,MySQL再依照这个执行计划和存储引擎进行交互。
-- 语法解析器和预处理
-
-
diff --git "a/DataBase/12\345\255\230\345\202\250\345\274\225\346\223\216.md" "b/DataBase/12\345\255\230\345\202\250\345\274\225\346\223\216.md"
deleted file mode 100644
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-
-* [三、存储引擎](#三存储引擎)
- * [InnoDB](#innodb)
- * [MyISAM](#myisam)
- * [比较](#比较)
-
-
-# 三、存储引擎
-
-## InnoDB
-
-是 MySQL 默认的事务型存储引擎,只有在需要它不支持的特性时,才考虑使用其它存储引擎。
-
-实现了四个标准的隔离级别,默认级别是可重复读(REPEATABLE READ)。在可重复读隔离级别下,通过多版本并发控制(MVCC)+ 间隙锁(Next-Key Locking)防止幻影读。
-
-主索引是聚簇索引,在索引中保存了数据,从而避免直接读取磁盘,因此对查询性能有很大的提升。
-
-内部做了很多优化,包括从磁盘读取数据时采用的可预测性读、能够加快读操作并且自动创建的自适应哈希索引、能够加速插入操作的插入缓冲区等。
-
-支持真正的在线热备份。其它存储引擎不支持在线热备份,要获取一致性视图需要停止对所有表的写入,而在读写混合场景中,停止写入可能也意味着停止读取。
-
-## MyISAM
-
-设计简单,数据以紧密格式存储。对于只读数据,或者表比较小、可以容忍修复操作,则依然可以使用它。
-
-提供了大量的特性,包括压缩表、空间数据索引等。
-
-不支持事务。
-
-不支持行级锁,只能对整张表加锁,读取时会对需要读到的所有表加共享锁,写入时则对表加排它锁。但在表有读取操作的同时,也可以往表中插入新的记录,这被称为并发插入(CONCURRENT INSERT)。
-
-可以手工或者自动执行检查和修复操作,但是和事务恢复以及崩溃恢复不同,可能导致一些数据丢失,而且修复操作是非常慢的。
-
-如果指定了 DELAY_KEY_WRITE 选项,在每次修改执行完成时,不会立即将修改的索引数据写入磁盘,而是会写到内存中的键缓冲区,只有在清理键缓冲区或者关闭表的时候才会将对应的索引块写入磁盘。这种方式可以极大的提升写入性能,但是在数据库或者主机崩溃时会造成索引损坏,需要执行修复操作。
-
-## 比较
-
-- 事务:InnoDB 是事务型的,可以使用 Commit 和 Rollback 语句。
-
-- 并发:MyISAM 只支持表级锁,而 InnoDB 还支持行级锁。
-
-- 外键:InnoDB 支持外键。
-
-- 备份:InnoDB 支持在线热备份。
-
-- 崩溃恢复:MyISAM 崩溃后发生损坏的概率比 InnoDB 高很多,而且恢复的速度也更慢。
-
-- 其它特性:MyISAM 支持压缩表和空间数据索引。
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diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/a-tale-of-two-cities.txt b/DataStructureNotes/a-tale-of-two-cities.txt
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: A Tale of Two Cities
- A Story of the French Revolution
-
-Author: Charles Dickens
-
-Release Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]
-Posting Date: November 28, 2009
-Last Updated: March 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Judith Boss
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-A TALE OF TWO CITIES
-
-A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
-
-By Charles Dickens
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
- Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
- Chapter I The Period
- Chapter II The Mail
- Chapter III The Night Shadows
- Chapter IV The Preparation
- Chapter V The Wine-shop
- Chapter VI The Shoemaker
-
-
- Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
- Chapter I Five Years Later
- Chapter II A Sight
- Chapter III A Disappointment
- Chapter IV Congratulatory
- Chapter V The Jackal
- Chapter VI Hundreds of People
- Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town
- Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country
- Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head
- Chapter X Two Promises
- Chapter XI A Companion Picture
- Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy
- Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy
- Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman
- Chapter XV Knitting
- Chapter XVI Still Knitting
- Chapter XVII One Night
- Chapter XVIII Nine Days
- Chapter XIX An Opinion
- Chapter XX A Plea
- Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps
- Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises
- Chapter XXIII Fire Rises
- Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
- Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
- Chapter I In Secret
- Chapter II The Grindstone
- Chapter III The Shadow
- Chapter IV Calm in Storm
- Chapter V The Wood-sawyer
- Chapter VI Triumph
- Chapter VII A Knock at the Door
- Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards
- Chapter IX The Game Made
- Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow
- Chapter XI Dusk
- Chapter XII Darkness
- Chapter XIII Fifty-two
- Chapter XIV The Knitting Done
- Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
-
-
-
-I. The Period
-
-
-It was the best of times,
-it was the worst of times,
-it was the age of wisdom,
-it was the age of foolishness,
-it was the epoch of belief,
-it was the epoch of incredulity,
-it was the season of Light,
-it was the season of Darkness,
-it was the spring of hope,
-it was the winter of despair,
-we had everything before us,
-we had nothing before us,
-we were all going direct to Heaven,
-we were all going direct the other way--
-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
-its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
-evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-
-There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
-throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
-a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
-than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
-that things in general were settled for ever.
-
-It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
-as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
-blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
-heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
-made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
-ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
-messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
-deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
-earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
-from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
-to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
-communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
-brood.
-
-France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
-sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
-hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
-Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
-achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
-torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
-kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
-which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
-yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
-Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
-already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
-boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
-it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
-of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
-sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
-rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
-the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
-the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
-unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
-with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
-that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
-
-In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
-justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
-highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
-families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
-their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
-in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
-challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
-“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
-mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
-then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
-failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
-that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
-and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
-illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
-gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
-fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
-thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
-Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
-for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
-musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
-much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
-and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
-up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
-Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
-hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
-Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
-and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
-sixpence.
-
-All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
-upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
-those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
-fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
-with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
-and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
-creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
-roads that lay before them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Mail
-
-
-It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
-before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
-The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
-Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
-as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
-for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
-and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
-horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
-coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
-to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
-combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
-otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
-are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
-their duty.
-
-With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
-the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
-falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
-them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
-near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
-unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
-hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
-nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
-
-There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
-forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
-none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
-air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
-waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
-everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
-and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
-into it, as if they had made it all.
-
-Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
-side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
-ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
-anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
-hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
-the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
-were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
-the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
-when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
-“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
-non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
-of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
-thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
-he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
-and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
-loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
-deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
-
-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
-the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
-all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
-the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
-taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
-journey.
-
-“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
-top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
-it!--Joe!”
-
-“Halloa!” the guard replied.
-
-“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”
-
-“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
-
-“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
-yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
-
-The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
-made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
-suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
-passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
-stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
-had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
-into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
-getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
-
-The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
-stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
-the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
-
-“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
-box.
-
-“What do you say, Tom?”
-
-They both listened.
-
-“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”
-
-“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
-of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
-name, all of you!”
-
-With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
-the offensive.
-
-The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
-the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
-remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
-in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
-and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
-back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
-his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
-
-The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
-of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
-indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
-the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
-passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
-quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
-the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
-
-The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
-
-“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
-I shall fire!”
-
-The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
-a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”
-
-“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Why do you want to know?”
-
-“I want a passenger, if it is.”
-
-“What passenger?”
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”
-
-Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
-the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
-
-“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
-“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
-your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”
-
-“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
-speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”
-
-(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
-himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)
-
-“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“What is the matter?”
-
-“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”
-
-“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
-road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
-passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
-pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
-
-“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
-guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”
-
-“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
-
-“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
-saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
-at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
-now let's look at you.”
-
-The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
-and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
-stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
-a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
-rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
-the man.
-
-“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
-
-The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
-blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
-answered curtly, “Sir.”
-
-“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
-know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
-to drink. I may read this?”
-
-“If so be as you're quick, sir.”
-
-He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
-read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
-It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
-TO LIFE.”
-
-Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
- said he, at his hoarsest.
-
-“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
-well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”
-
-With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
-all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
-their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
-pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
-the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
-
-The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
-it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
-in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
-having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
-looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
-few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
-furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
-and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
-himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
-and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
-five minutes.
-
-“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.
-
-“Hallo, Joe.”
-
-“Did you hear the message?”
-
-“I did, Joe.”
-
-“What did you make of it, Tom?”
-
-“Nothing at all, Joe.”
-
-“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
-myself.”
-
-Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
-only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
-shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
-holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
-heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
-hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
-hill.
-
-“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
-fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
-glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
-message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
-be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
-Jerry!”
-
-
-
-
-III. The Night Shadows
-
-
-A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
-constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
-solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
-one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
-room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
-heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
-its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
-awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
-turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
-to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
-water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
-of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
-book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
-but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
-eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
-in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
-my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
-consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
-individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
-any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
-a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
-innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
-
-As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
-messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
-first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
-three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
-coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
-been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
-breadth of a county between him and the next.
-
-The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
-ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
-own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
-assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
-no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
-were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
-far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
-a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
-throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
-for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
-poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
-muffled again.
-
-“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
-“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
-suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
-been a drinking!”
-
-His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
-times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
-which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
-over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
-so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
-wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
-have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
-
-While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
-watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
-was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
-night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
-shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
-They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
-
-What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
-its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
-likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
-their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
-
-Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
-passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
-lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
-and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
-jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
-coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
-bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
-stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
-and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
-all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
-the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
-stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
-little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
-them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
-safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
-
-But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
-(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
-always with him, there was another current of impression that never
-ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
-out of a grave.
-
-Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
-was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
-not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
-years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
-and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
-defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
-so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
-and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
-prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
-spectre:
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-“You know that you are recalled to life?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”
-
-The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
-the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
- Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
-“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
-was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”
-
-After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
-and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
-hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
-hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
-passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
-reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
-
-Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
-patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
-by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
-of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
-real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
-sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
-of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
-it again.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
-passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
-securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
-slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
-slid away into the bank and the grave.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
-his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
-passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
-shadows of the night were gone.
-
-He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
-ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
-last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
-in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
-upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
-and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
-
-“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
-Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
-
-
-
-
-IV. The Preparation
-
-
-When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
-the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
-custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
-from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
-traveller upon.
-
-By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
-congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
-roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
-and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
-like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
-of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
-muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
-
-“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
-
-“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
-tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
-sir?”
-
-“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”
-
-“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
-Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
-gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
-Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”
-
-The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
-mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
-head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
-Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
-all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
-drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
-loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
-and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
-brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
-square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
-his breakfast.
-
-The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
-in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
-with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
-that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
-
-Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
-loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
-as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
-evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
-of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
-fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
-wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
-head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
-looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
-His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
-was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
-beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
-face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
-quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
-their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
-reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
-cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
-But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
-principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
-second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
-
-Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
-Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
-and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
-
-“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
-time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
-gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
-their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
-vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”
-
-“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
-sir?”
-
-“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
-from France.”
-
-“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
-time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
-Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
-years ago?”
-
-“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
-the truth.”
-
-“Indeed, sir!”
-
-Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
-table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
-dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
-he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
-immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
-
-When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
-the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
-from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
-ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
-wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
-destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
-brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
-a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
-dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
-fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
-night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
-made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
-sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
-that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
-
-As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
-at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
-again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
-too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
-his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
-digging, digging, in the live red coals.
-
-A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
-harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
-Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
-glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
-ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
-got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
-street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
-
-He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.
-
-In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
-had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
-Tellson's.
-
-“So soon?”
-
-Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
-then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
-immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
-
-The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
-glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
-wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
-It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
-horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
-oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
-were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
-graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
-from them until they were dug out.
-
-The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
-way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
-the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
-candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
-the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
-and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
-his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
-hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
-a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
-it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
-not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
-fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
-eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
-of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
-Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
-high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
-the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
-procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
-offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
-feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
-
-“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
-little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
-
-“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
-date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
-
-“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
-some intelligence--or discovery--”
-
-“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
-
-“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
-long dead--”
-
-Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
-hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
-anybody in their absurd baskets!
-
-“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
-with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
-the purpose.”
-
-“Myself.”
-
-“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”
-
-She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
-pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
-was than she. He made her another bow.
-
-“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
-those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
-France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
-me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
-during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
-gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
-beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
-
-“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
-be more happy to execute it.”
-
-“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
-by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
-business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
-nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
-strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
-
-“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”
-
-After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
-ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”
-
-He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
-forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
-and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
-as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
-shadow.
-
-“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
-
-“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
-an argumentative smile.
-
-Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
-which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
-deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
-she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
-moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
-
-“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
-as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”
-
-“If you please, sir.”
-
-“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
-acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
-if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
-your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
-
-“Story!”
-
-He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
-in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
-our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
-gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”
-
-“Not of Beauvais?”
-
-“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
-Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
-time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”
-
-“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”
-
-“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
-I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
-French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
-In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
-scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
-there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
-sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
-business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
-the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
-machine. To go on--”
-
-“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
-curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
-left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
-it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
-to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
-conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
-the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
-his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
-down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
-
-“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
-just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
-with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
-that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
-Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
-Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
-of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
-Mangle.”
-
-After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
-flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
-unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
-before), and resumed his former attitude.
-
-“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
-regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
-when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”
-
-She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
-
-“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
-the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
-him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
-business. As I was saying--”
-
-Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
-
-“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
-and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
-been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
-trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
-privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
-to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
-privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
-to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
-implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
-him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
-been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”
-
-“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
-
-“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”
-
-“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
-moment.”
-
-“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
-his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
-Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
-if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
-had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
-born--”
-
-“The little child was a daughter, sir.”
-
-“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
-poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
-that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
-inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
-rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
-Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
-
-“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
-
-“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
-business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
-mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
-shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
-much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
-
-Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
-very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
-his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
-communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
-
-“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
-you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
-you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
-her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
-to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
-upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
-heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
-
-As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
-flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
-been already tinged with grey.
-
-“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
-they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
-discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
-
-He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
-forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
-now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
-
-“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
-probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
-Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
-in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
-restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
-
-A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
-low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
-
-“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”
-
-Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
-there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
-You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
-sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
-
-She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
-have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
-
-“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
-wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
-another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
-worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
-know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
-held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
-because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
-anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
-events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
-Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
-the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
-to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
-and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
-which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
-word! Miss Manette!”
-
-Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
-sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
-upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
-branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
-feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
-out loudly for assistance without moving.
-
-A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
-be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
-extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
-wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
-or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
-inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
-poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
-flying back against the nearest wall.
-
-(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
-reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
-
-“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
-“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
-at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
-things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
-water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”
-
-There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
-softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
-gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
-golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
-
-“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
-“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
-to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
-you call _that_ being a Banker?”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
-answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
-sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
-servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
-not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
-regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
-upon her shoulder.
-
-“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
-
-“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
-humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”
-
-“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
-intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
-would have cast my lot in an island?”
-
-This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
-consider it.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wine-shop
-
-
-A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
-accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
-out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
-outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
-
-All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
-idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
-stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
-thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
-had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
-jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
-made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
-women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
-run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
-the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
-handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
-mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
-others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
-there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
-directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
-pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
-fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
-wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
-along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
-if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
-presence.
-
-A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
-and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
-was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
-special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
-of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
-luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
-shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
-together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
-most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
-demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
-had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
-motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
-hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
-starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
-with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
-the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
-gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
-
-The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
-in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
-stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
-wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
-on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
-stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
-Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
-tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
-head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
-upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
-
-The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
-street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
-
-And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
-gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
-heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
-waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
-but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
-terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
-fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
-passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
-in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
-had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
-children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
-grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
-was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
-of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
-lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
-paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
-firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
-chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
-among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
-baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
-bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
-was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
-chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
-farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
-drops of oil.
-
-Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
-street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
-diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
-and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
-that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
-wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
-slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
-compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
-into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
-inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
-were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
-painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
-meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
-croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
-gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
-flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
-and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
-gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
-with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
-broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
-the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
-rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
-the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
-pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
-and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
-manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
-the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
-
-For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
-should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
-long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
-up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
-condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
-France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
-song and feather, took no warning.
-
-The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
-appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
-it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
-for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
-of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
-another.”
-
-There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
-he called to him across the way:
-
-“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
-
-The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
-the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
-often the way with his tribe too.
-
-“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
-keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
-mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
-in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
-to write such words in?”
-
-In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
-perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
-own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
-attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
-hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
-practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
-
-“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
-there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
-dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
-his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
-
-This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
-and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
-bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
-His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
-the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
-crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
-eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
-the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
-resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
-down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
-the man.
-
-Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
-came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
-a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
-heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
-manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
-have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
-in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
-sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
-shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
-earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
-her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
-by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
-coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
-of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
-line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
-shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
-he stepped over the way.
-
-The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
-rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
-a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
-dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
-of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
-elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”
-
-“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
-to himself; “I don't know you.”
-
-But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
-with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
-all the spilt wine swallowed?”
-
-“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
-
-When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
-picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
-and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
-Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
-of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
-
-“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
-
-At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
-using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
-cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
-drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
-
-“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
-always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
-right, Jacques?”
-
-“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
-when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
-slightly rustled in her seat.
-
-“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”
-
-The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
-flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
-giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
-wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
-of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
-upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
-wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
-fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
-close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
-my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
-there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
-
-They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
-Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
-gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
-
-“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
-the door.
-
-Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
-word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
-not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
-beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
-knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
-
-Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
-joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
-company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
-and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
-by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
-gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
-to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
-a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
-transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
-in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
-angry, dangerous man.
-
-“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
- Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
-ascending the stairs.
-
-“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
-
-“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
-same low voice.
-
-“Is he always alone, then?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Of his own desire?”
-
-“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
-found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
-discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
-
-“He is greatly changed?”
-
-“Changed!”
-
-The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
-and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
-forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
-two companions ascended higher and higher.
-
-Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
-parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
-indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
-within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
-the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
-staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
-flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
-hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
-the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
-intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
-insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
-and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
-his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
-Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
-at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
-uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
-to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
-caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
-or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
-promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
-
-At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
-third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
-and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
-was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
-advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
-dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
-here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
-his shoulder, took out a key.
-
-“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
-
-“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
-
-“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
-closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
-frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
-harm--if his door was left open.”
-
-“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
-world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
-are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
-that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
-
-This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
-of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
-under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
-and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
-on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
-
-“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
-moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
-all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
-bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
-That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
-
-They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
-soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
-once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
-the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
-the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
-footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
-themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
-wine-shop.
-
-“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
-Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
-
-The three glided by, and went silently down.
-
-There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
-the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
-Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
-
-“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
-
-“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
-
-“Is that well?”
-
-“_I_ think it is well.”
-
-“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
-
-“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
-sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
-thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
-
-With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
-through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
-twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
-make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
-three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
-it as heavily as he could.
-
-The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
-room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
-than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
-
-He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
-got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
-felt that she was sinking.
-
-“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
-business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
-
-“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
-
-“Of it? What?”
-
-“I mean of him. Of my father.”
-
-Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
-their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
-shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
-down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
-
-Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
-took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
-methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
-could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
-where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
-
-The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
-and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
-roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
-the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
-other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
-door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
-Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
-was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
-alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
-requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
-done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
-towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
-him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
-busy, making shoes.
-
-
-
-
-VI. The Shoemaker
-
-
-“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
-bent low over the shoemaking.
-
-It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
-salutation, as if it were at a distance:
-
-“Good day!”
-
-“You are still hard at work, I see?”
-
-After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
-voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
-had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
-
-The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
-faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
-doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
-the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
-of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
-resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
-beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
-suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
-it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
-wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
-home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
-
-Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
-up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
-perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
-aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
-
-“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
-“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”
-
-The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
-at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
-other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“You can bear a little more light?”
-
-“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
-stress upon the second word.)
-
-The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
-angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
-showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
-labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
-feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
-long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
-thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
-dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
-otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
-His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
-to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
-stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
-from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
-parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
-
-He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
-of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
-pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
-first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
-lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
-first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
-
-“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
-motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
-
-“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”
-
-But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
-
-Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
-he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
-looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
-unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
-it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
-the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
-look and the action had occupied but an instant.
-
-“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Here is a visitor.”
-
-The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
-work.
-
-“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
-he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
-
-“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
-
-There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
-
-“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”
-
-“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
-information?”
-
-“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
-present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
-glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
-
-“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.
-
-Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
-in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
-hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
-so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
-recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
-had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
-endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
-fast-dying man.
-
-“Did you ask me for my name?”
-
-“Assuredly I did.”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
-again, until the silence was again broken.
-
-“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
-at him.
-
-His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
-question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
-on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
-
-“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
-learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”
-
-He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
-hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
-from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
-resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
-subject of last night.
-
-“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
-a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”
-
-As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
-Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
-
-“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
-
-The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
-questioner.
-
-“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
-remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
-banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
-mind, Monsieur Manette?”
-
-As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
-Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
-intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
-through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
-again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
-so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
-had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
-she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
-raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
-shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
-trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
-breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
-repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
-looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
-
-Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
-less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
-and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
-took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
-
-“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.
-
-“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
-unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
-well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”
-
-She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
-which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
-figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
-over his labour.
-
-Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
-beside him, and he bent over his work.
-
-It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
-in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
-which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
-stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
-raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
-but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
-striking at her with the knife, though they had.
-
-He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
-to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
-the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
-
-“What is this?”
-
-With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
-lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
-laid his ruined head there.
-
-“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”
-
-She sighed “No.”
-
-“Who are you?”
-
-Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
-beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
-thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
-laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
-
-Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
-aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
-little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
-he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
-shoemaking.
-
-But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
-shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
-be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
-to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
-attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
-a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
-hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
-
-He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
-the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”
-
-As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
-become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
-light, and looked at her.
-
-“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
-out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
-brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
-leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
-may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
-well.”
-
-He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
-But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
-though slowly.
-
-“How was this?--_Was it you_?”
-
-Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
-frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
-said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
-us, do not speak, do not move!”
-
-“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”
-
-His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
-hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
-shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
-tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
-gloomily shook his head.
-
-“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
-prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
-she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
-was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
-name, my gentle angel?”
-
-Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
-before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
-
-“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
-and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
-cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
-tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
-me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”
-
-His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
-lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
-
-“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
-is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
-sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
-touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
-breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
-I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
-with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
-remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
-weep for it, weep for it!”
-
-She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
-child.
-
-“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
-have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
-peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
-and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
-if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
-and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
-honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
-striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
-my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
-for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
-tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
-God for us, thank God!”
-
-He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
-touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
-had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
-
-When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
-breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
-storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
-called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
-daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
-there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
-head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
-him from the light.
-
-“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
-he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
-arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
-could be taken away--”
-
-“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
-him.”
-
-“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
-than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
-Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”
-
-“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
-methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”
-
-“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
-composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
-now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
-interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
-as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
-you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
-
-Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
-in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
-and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
-for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
-dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
-to do it.
-
-Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
-hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
-deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
-through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
-had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
-meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
-lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
-garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
-assisted him to his feet.
-
-No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
-the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
-whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
-he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
-tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
-answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
-the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
-occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
-in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
-daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
-
-In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
-ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
-and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
-his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
-in both his own.
-
-They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
-Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
-of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
-round at the walls.
-
-“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
-she had repeated it.
-
-“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”
-
-That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
-prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
-evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
-him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
-tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
-no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
-dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
-
-No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
-many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
-silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
-that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
-saw nothing.
-
-The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
-him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
-miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
-Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
-went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
-brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
-against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
-
-Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
-postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
-over-swinging lamps.
-
-Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
-streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
-illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
-gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
-travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
-getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
-monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
-him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
-military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
-in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
-or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
-Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
-grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
-grove of stars.
-
-Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
-this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
-rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
-is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
-All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
-whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
-man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
-lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:
-
-“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”
-
-And the old answer:
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-
-The end of the first book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
-
-
-
-I. Five Years Later
-
-
-Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
-year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
-dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
-moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
-proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
-proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
-in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
-it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
-no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
-convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
-no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
-embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
-Tellson's, thank Heaven--!
-
-Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
-question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
-on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
-suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
-objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
-
-Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
-of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
-a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
-and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
-counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
-wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
-windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
-and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
-heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
-“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
-where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
-hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
-twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
-drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
-they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
-were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
-the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
-polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
-made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
-parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
-papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
-dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
-one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
-by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
-from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
-exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
-Abyssinia or Ashantee.
-
-But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
-with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
-Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
-Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
-was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
-purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
-of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
-Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
-three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
-Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
-might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
-reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
-particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
-after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
-its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
-low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
-disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
-ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
-
-Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
-oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
-man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
-old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
-Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
-be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
-and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
-
-Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
-odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
-sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
-upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
-of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
-in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
-tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
-this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
-occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
-easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
-appellation of Jerry.
-
-The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
-Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
-morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
-always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
-the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
-popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
-
-Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
-but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
-might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
-it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
-already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
-for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
-was spread.
-
-Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
-at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
-and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
-looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
-exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
-
-“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
-
-A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
-corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
-person referred to.
-
-“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
-agin, are you?”
-
-After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
-the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
-odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
-whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
-often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
-
-“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
-mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”
-
-“I was only saying my prayers.”
-
-“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
-yourself down and praying agin me?”
-
-“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”
-
-“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
-your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
-father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
-You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
-herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
-of the mouth of her only child.”
-
-Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
-to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
-board.
-
-“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
-unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
-Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”
-
-“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
-that.”
-
-“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
-much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
-afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
-you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
-child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
-wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
-have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
-countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
-B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
-on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
-another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
-devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
-boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
-then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
-tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
-in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
-laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
-it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
-I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
-been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
-it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
-say now!”
-
-Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
-You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
-and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
-from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
-himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
-In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
-and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
-kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
-woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
-his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
---Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
-again with an undutiful grin.
-
-Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
-breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
-animosity.
-
-“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”
-
-His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
-
-“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
-to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
-ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
-blest off my table. Keep still!”
-
-Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
-which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
-his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
-inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
-aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
-he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
-of the day.
-
-It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
-description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
-a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
-young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
-beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
-with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
-from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
-feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
-Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
-itself,--and was almost as in-looking.
-
-Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
-three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
-Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
-standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
-inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
-boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
-extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
-in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
-eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
-The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
-the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
-youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
-in Fleet-street.
-
-The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
-establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
-
-“Porter wanted!”
-
-“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”
-
-Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
-the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
-had been chewing, and cogitated.
-
-“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
-“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
-rust here!”
-
-
-
-
-II. A Sight
-
-
-“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
-clerks to Jerry the messenger.
-
-“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
-know the Bailey.”
-
-“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
-better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
-in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”
-
-“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
-door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”
-
-“Into the court, sir?”
-
-“Into the court.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
-interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”
-
-“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
-conference.
-
-“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
-Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
-attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
-to remain there until he wants you.”
-
-“Is that all, sir?”
-
-“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
-you are there.”
-
-As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
-Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
-blotting-paper stage, remarked:
-
-“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”
-
-“Treason!”
-
-“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”
-
-“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
-spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”
-
-“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
-him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
-
-“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
-care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
-care of itself. I give you that advice.”
-
-“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
-leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
-
-“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
-gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
-ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”
-
-Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
-deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
-too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
-and went his way.
-
-They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
-not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
-But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
-villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
-into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
-dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
-had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
-his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
-For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
-from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
-a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
-half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
-So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
-was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
-a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
-the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
-softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
-blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
-leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
-under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
-illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
-that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
-consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
-
-Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
-hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
-way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
-his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
-at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
-former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
-doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
-criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
-
-After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
-very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
-court.
-
-“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
-to.
-
-“Nothing yet.”
-
-“What's coming on?”
-
-“The Treason case.”
-
-“The quartering one, eh?”
-
-“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
-be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
-face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
-and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
-That's the sentence.”
-
-“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.
-
-“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
-that.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
-saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
-sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
-gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
-before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
-in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
-then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
-court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
-with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
-to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
-
-“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
-
-“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.
-
-“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
-
-“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.
-
-The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
-central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
-went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
-
-Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
-ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
-at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
-pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
-stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
-laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
-themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
-upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
-Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
-of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
-whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
-the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
-that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
-in an impure mist and rain.
-
-The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
-five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
-a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
-dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
-dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
-of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
-itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
-situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
-soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
-bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
-
-The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
-was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
-horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
-details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
-fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
-was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
-and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
-spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
-powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
-
-Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
-an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
-he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
-forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
-occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
-King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
-so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
-our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
-said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
-evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
-said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
-to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
-becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
-huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
-the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
-there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
-that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
-
-The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
-beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
-the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
-attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
-and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
-composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
-it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
-vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
-
-Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
-upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
-it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
-in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
-glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
-day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
-for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
-that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
-of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
-face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
-
-It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
-which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
-in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
-immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
-aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
-
-The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
-twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
-remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
-and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
-but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
-looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
-it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
-handsome man, not past the prime of life.
-
-His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
-him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
-dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
-been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
-that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
-noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
-had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
-“Who are they?”
-
-Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
-manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
-absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
-him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
-from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
-to Jerry:
-
-“Witnesses.”
-
-“For which side?”
-
-“Against.”
-
-“Against what side?”
-
-“The prisoner's.”
-
-The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
-leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
-in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
-axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
-
-
-
-
-III. A Disappointment
-
-
-Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
-them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
-claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
-public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
-even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
-prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
-repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
-he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
-traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
-wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
-That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
-was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
-prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
-Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
-That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
-attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
-friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
-infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
-in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
-were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
-benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
-they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
-as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
-knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
-whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
-they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
-especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
-That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
-for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
-communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
-a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
-and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
-hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
-in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
-brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
-Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
-on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
-witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
-produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
-his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
-sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
-such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
-proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
-same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
-showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
-would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
-in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
-very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
-That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
-were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
-positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
-they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
-pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
-their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
-of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
-there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
-pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
-Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
-everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
-of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
-good as dead and gone.
-
-When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
-a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
-anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
-unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
-
-Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
-patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
-exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
-it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
-of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
-wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
-Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
-opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
-
-Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
-What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
-precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
-Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
-distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
-prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
-prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
-times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
-been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
-Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
-downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
-dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
-committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
-Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
-more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
-Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
-very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
-No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
-about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
-Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
-pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
-no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
-patriotism? None whatever.
-
-The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
-great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
-simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
-packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
-He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
-charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
-the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
-his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
-prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
-the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
-had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
-at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
-Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
-information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
-he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
-only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
-that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
-coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
-curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
-was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
-
-The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry.
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
-seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
-Dover by the mail?”
-
-“It did.”
-
-“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
-
-“Two.”
-
-“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
-
-“They did.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”
-
-“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
-
-“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
-
-“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
-reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
-those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
-render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”
-
-“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
-myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
-air.”
-
-“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“I certainly have seen that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
-certain knowledge, before?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
-prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
-voyage with me.”
-
-“At what hour did he come on board?”
-
-“At a little after midnight.”
-
-“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
-at that untimely hour?”
-
-“He happened to be the only one.”
-
-“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
-came on board in the dead of the night?”
-
-“He was.”
-
-“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
-
-“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
-
-“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
-
-“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
-I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
-
-“Miss Manette!”
-
-The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
-turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
-kept her hand drawn through his arm.
-
-“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
-
-To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
-far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
-Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
-the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
-to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
-before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
-to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
-rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
-
-“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Where?”
-
-“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
-occasion.”
-
-“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
-
-“O! most unhappily, I am!”
-
-The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
-of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
-to you, and make no remark upon them.”
-
-“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
-passage across the Channel?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Recall it.”
-
-In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
-gentleman came on board--”
-
-“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
-
-“Yes, my Lord.”
-
-“Then say the prisoner.”
-
-“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
-her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
-and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
-afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
-deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
-care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
-The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
-shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
-had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
-set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
-great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
-felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
-
-“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“How many were with him?”
-
-“Two French gentlemen.”
-
-“Had they conferred together?”
-
-“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
-necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”
-
-“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”
-
-“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
-papers.”
-
-“Like these in shape and size?”
-
-“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
-near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
-light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
-spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
-they looked at papers.”
-
-“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”
-
-“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
-of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
-father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
-harm to-day.”
-
-Buzzing from the blue-flies.
-
-“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
-you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
-give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
-he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”
-
-“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
-difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
-therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
-had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
-take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
-time to come.”
-
-“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”
-
-“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
-that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
-England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
-Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
-Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
-laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
-
-Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
-a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
-unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
-anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
-she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
-the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
-expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
-of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
-when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
-heresy about George Washington.
-
-Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
-necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
-father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
-
-“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
-
-“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
-three years and a half ago.”
-
-“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
-speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
-
-“Sir, I can do neither.”
-
-“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
-either?”
-
-He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
-
-“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
-trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”
-
-He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”
-
-“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
-
-“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
-time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
-time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
-here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
-my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
-familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
-
-Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
-together.
-
-A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
-to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
-in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
-got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
-not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
-to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
-was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
-in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
-waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
-this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
-on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
-been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
-little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
-this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
-attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
-
-“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
-
-The witness was quite sure.
-
-“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
-
-Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
-
-“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
-to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
-prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”
-
-Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
-if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
-not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
-into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
-his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
-much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
-counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
-friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
-would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
-happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
-this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
-confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
-this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
-useless lumber.
-
-Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
-fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
-Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
-of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
-traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
-scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
-rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
-and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
-swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
-affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
-those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
-consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
-even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
-and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
-had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
-gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
-and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
-reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
-impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
-How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
-attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
-and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
-how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
-character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
-State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
-(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
-not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
-
-Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
-attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
-Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
-Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
-prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
-the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
-decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
-
-And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
-
-Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
-changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
-While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
-whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
-anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
-grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
-and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
-in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
-sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
-on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
-hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
-day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
-a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
-undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
-when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
-lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
-hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
-observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
-that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
-to get any, do he?”
-
-Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
-appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
-her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
-“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
-Don't you see she will fall!”
-
-There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
-sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
-him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
-strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
-brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
-ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
-moment, spoke, through their foreman.
-
-They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
-Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
-but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
-and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
-the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
-jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
-refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
-down.
-
-Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
-now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
-could easily get near him.
-
-“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
-way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
-behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
-are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
-before I can.”
-
-Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
-acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
-at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
-
-“How is the young lady?”
-
-“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
-feels the better for being out of court.”
-
-“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
-like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
-in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
-The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
-eyes, ears, and spikes.
-
-“Mr. Darnay!”
-
-The prisoner came forward directly.
-
-“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
-will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”
-
-“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
-for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
-
-“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
-
-Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
-half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
-
-“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
-
-“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
-Mr. Darnay?”
-
-“The worst.”
-
-“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
-withdrawing is in your favour.”
-
-Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
-more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
-in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
-them.
-
-An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
-passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
-The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
-refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
-of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
-with them.
-
-“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
-there.
-
-“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
-
-Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
-it?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
-
-“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
-Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”
-
-He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
-until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
-with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
-swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
-search of other carrion.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Congratulatory
-
-
-From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
-human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
-Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
-for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
-Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
-death.
-
-It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
-in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
-shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
-twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
-had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
-to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
-reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
-lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
-from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
-itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
-unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
-Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
-hundred miles away.
-
-Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
-his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
-misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
-the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
-influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
-recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
-and slight, and she believed them over.
-
-Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
-to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
-more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
-loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
-way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
-conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
-
-He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
-late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
-out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
-Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
-less likely to succeed on that account.”
-
-“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
- said his late client, taking his hand.
-
-“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
-another man's, I believe.”
-
-It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
-said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
-object of squeezing himself back again.
-
-“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
-and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
-
-“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
-now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
-him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
-this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
-Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”
-
-“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
-do yet. Speak for yourself.”
-
-“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
-Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
- He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
-
-His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
-Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
-not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
-thoughts had wandered away.
-
-“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
-
-He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
-
-“Shall we go home, my father?”
-
-With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”
-
-The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
-impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
-released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
-passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
-and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
-gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
-Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
-the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
-departed in it.
-
-Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
-to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
-interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
-against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
-out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
-stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
-
-“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”
-
-Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
-proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
-better for it in appearance.
-
-“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
-business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
-appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
-sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
-have to think of the House more than ourselves.”
-
-“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
-nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
-I dare say.”
-
-“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
-know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
-much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
-business.”
-
-“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“It is a pity you have not, sir.”
-
-“I think so, too.”
-
-“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”
-
-“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
-“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
-if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
-Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
-for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
-I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
-life.--Chair there!”
-
-Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
-Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
-who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
-then, and turned to Darnay:
-
-“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
-be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
-these street stones?”
-
-“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
-again.”
-
-“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
-advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”
-
-“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”
-
-“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
-numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
-some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”
-
-Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
-Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
-shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
-his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
-opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
-before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
-
-“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
-Darnay?”
-
-“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
-mended as to feel that.”
-
-“It must be an immense satisfaction!”
-
-He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
-one.
-
-“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
-It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
-are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
-not much alike in any particular, you and I.”
-
-Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
-this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
-at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
-
-“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
-health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”
-
-“What health? What toast?”
-
-“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
-swear it's there.”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
-flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
-pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
- he said, filling his new goblet.
-
-A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
-feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
-sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”
-
-Again Darnay answered not a word.
-
-“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
-that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”
-
-The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
-disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
-strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
-for it.
-
-“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
-“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
-it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”
-
-“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”
-
-“Do you think I particularly like you?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
-not asked myself the question.”
-
-“But ask yourself the question now.”
-
-“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”
-
-“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
-opinion of your understanding.”
-
-“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
-nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
-parting without ill-blood on either side.”
-
-Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
-reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
-bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
-ten.”
-
-The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
-Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
-of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
-I am drunk?”
-
-“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
-
-“Since I must say so, I know it.”
-
-“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
-care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
-
-“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
-
-“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
-however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”
-
-When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
-glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
-
-“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
-should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
-in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
-made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
-what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
-places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
-he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
-have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
-
-He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
-minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
-table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Jackal
-
-
-Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
-the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
-statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
-in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
-perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
-The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
-learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
-Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
-practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
-drier parts of the legal race.
-
-A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
-begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
-he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
-specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
-visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
-florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
-the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
-among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
-
-It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
-man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
-faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
-among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
-But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
-business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
-pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
-Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
-
-Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
-ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
-might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
-anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
-at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
-they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
-rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
-to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
-among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
-would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
-rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
-wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“_What's_ the matter?”
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”
-
-“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
-
-“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
-
-After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
-dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
-he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
-and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
-Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
-
-The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
-home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
-and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
-had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
-may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
-Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
-Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
-
-“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.
-
-“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”
-
-They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
-where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
-the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
-it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
-
-“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”
-
-“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
-seeing him dine--it's all one!”
-
-“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
-identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”
-
-“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
-been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”
-
-Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
-
-“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”
-
-Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
-room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
-or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
-out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
-at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”
-
-“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
-gaily, as he looked among his papers.
-
-“How much?”
-
-“Only two sets of them.”
-
-“Give me the worst first.”
-
-“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
-
-The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
-drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
-proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
-his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
-a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
-his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
-lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
-so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
-stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
-more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
-matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
-him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
-jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
-no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
-gravity.
-
-At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
-proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
-made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
-assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
-hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
-invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
-to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
-this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
-disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
-
-“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
-Stryver.
-
-The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
-again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
-
-“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
-to-day. Every question told.”
-
-“I always am sound; am I not?”
-
-“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
-it and smooth it again.”
-
-With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
-
-“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
-his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
-old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
-now in despondency!”
-
-“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
-luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
-
-He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
-him, looking at the fire.
-
-“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
-as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
-was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
-Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
-is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
-at me.”
-
-“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
-good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”
-
-“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
-do?”
-
-“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
-your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
-do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”
-
-“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”
-
-“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
-Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
-
-“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
- pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
-mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
-picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
-didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
-nowhere.”
-
-“And whose fault was that?”
-
-“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
-driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
-that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
-thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
-Turn me in some other direction before I go.”
-
-“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
-his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”
-
-Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
-
-“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
-enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”
-
-“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”
-
-“_She_ pretty?”
-
-“Is she not?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”
-
-“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
-of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”
-
-“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
-and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
-thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
-and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”
-
-“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
-yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
-I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
-I'll get to bed.”
-
-When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
-him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
-windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
-dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
-lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
-before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
-the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
-
-Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
-on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
-wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
-perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
-from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
-fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
-A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
-houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
-pillow was wet with wasted tears.
-
-Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
-good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
-incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
-on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
-
-
-
-
-VI. Hundreds of People
-
-
-The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
-far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
-waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
-it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
-on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
-business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
-quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
-
-On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
-the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
-Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
-secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
-them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
-generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
-his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
-Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
-them.
-
-A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
-found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
-the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
-had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
-north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
-grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
-consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
-instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
-settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
-the peaches ripened in their season.
-
-The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
-of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
-though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
-glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
-place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
-
-There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
-there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
-several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
-audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
-a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
-rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
-to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
-who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
-he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
-visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
-to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
-a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
-workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
-about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
-thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
-required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
-the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
-from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
-
-Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
-its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
-His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
-ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
-he earned as much as he wanted.
-
-These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
-notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
-on the fine Sunday afternoon.
-
-“Doctor Manette at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Lucie at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Pross at home?”
-
-Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
-anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
-fact.
-
-“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”
-
-Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
-birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
-make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
-agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
-by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
-that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
-rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
-the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
-delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
-themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
-stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
-with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
-time, whether he approved?
-
-There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
-communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
-all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
-he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
-the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
-and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
-the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
-changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
-Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
-bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
-dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
-
-“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
-that reminder of his sufferings about him!”
-
-“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
-
-It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
-acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
-had since improved.
-
-“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.
-
-“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
-
-“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
-express that she bore him no malice.
-
-“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
-are you?”
-
-“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
-Ladybird.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
-fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
-stature) was shortness.
-
-“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
-
-“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
-very much put out.”
-
-“May I ask the cause?”
-
-“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
-come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”
-
-“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.
-
-It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
-time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
-she exaggerated it.
-
-“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
-
-“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
-paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
-your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
-for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
- said Miss Pross.
-
-Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
-using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
-fit anything.
-
-“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
-are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”
-
-“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”
-
-“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”
-
-“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
-enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
-that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
-him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
-circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
-and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
-him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”
-
-Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
-this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
-unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
-admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
-it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
-never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
-their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
-is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
-rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
-respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
-mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
-Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
-better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
-
-“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
-Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
-mistake in life.”
-
-Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
-established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
-who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
-speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
-no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
-(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
-matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
-
-“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
-business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
-sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
-in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”
-
-“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
-refer to it within himself.”
-
-“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”
-
-“I do,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
-short with:
-
-“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”
-
-“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
-sometimes?”
-
-“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
-bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
-theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
-the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
-oppressor?”
-
-“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”
-
-“And that is--?”
-
-“That she thinks he has.”
-
-“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
-mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”
-
-“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
-
-Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
-no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
-Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
-he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
-though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
-intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
-attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
-Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
-zealous interest.”
-
-“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
-me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
-of the whole subject.”
-
-“Afraid?”
-
-“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
-remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
-knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
-feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
-subject pleasant, I should think.”
-
-It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
-he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
-Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
-always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
-it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”
-
-“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
-string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
-In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
-the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
-up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
-know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
-his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
-and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
-a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
-best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
-together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
-brought him to himself.”
-
-Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
-perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
-in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
-her possessing such a thing.
-
-The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
-had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
-seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
-set it going.
-
-“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
-“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”
-
-It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
-peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
-looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
-they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
-the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
-heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
-at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
-was ready at the street door to receive them.
-
-Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
-off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
-with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
-folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
-as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
-had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
-sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
-her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
-playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
-chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
-them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
-eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
-have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
-beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
-stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
-Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
-for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
-
-Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
-the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
-always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
-quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
-contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
-better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
-kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
-impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
-impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
-of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
-who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
-or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
-a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
-pleased.
-
-On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
-persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
-regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
-which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
-Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
-to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
-
-It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
-wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
-there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
-they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
-the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
-time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
-plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
-and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
-whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
-
-Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
-presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
-was only One.
-
-Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
-suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
-retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
-disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
-jerks.”
-
-The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
-resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
-they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
-his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
-likeness.
-
-He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
-vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
-plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
-which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
-the Tower?”
-
-“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
-it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”
-
-“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
-though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
-character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
-curious thing when I was there.”
-
-“What was that?” Lucie asked.
-
-“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
-had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
-its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
-prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
-in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
-execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
-some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
-At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
-examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
-legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
-were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
-that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
-floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
-earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
-the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
-or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
-had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”
-
-“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”
-
-He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
-his look quite terrified them all.
-
-“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
-made me start. We had better go in.”
-
-He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
-drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
-said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
-of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
-either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
-towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
-when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
-
-He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
-his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
-steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
-was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
-that the rain had startled him.
-
-Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
-her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
-made only Two.
-
-The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
-windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
-done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
-heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
-leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
-the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
-ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
-
-“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
-Manette. “It comes slowly.”
-
-“It comes surely,” said Carton.
-
-They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
-dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
-
-There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
-get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
-resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
-footstep was there.
-
-“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
-listened for a while.
-
-“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
-sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
-a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
-solemn--”
-
-“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”
-
-“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
-originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
-sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
-the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
-by-and-bye into our lives.”
-
-“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
- Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
-
-The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
-rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
-as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
-coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
-the distant streets, and not one within sight.
-
-“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
-are we to divide them among us?”
-
-“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
-asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
-then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
-into my life, and my father's.”
-
-“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
-stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
-and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
-had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
-
-“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
-come, fast, fierce, and furious!”
-
-It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
-for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
-lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
-interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
-midnight.
-
-The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
-Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
-forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
-of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
-of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
-usually performed a good two hours earlier.
-
-“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
-bring the dead out of their graves.”
-
-“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
-would do that,” answered Jerry.
-
-“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
-Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”
-
-Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
-bearing down upon them, too.
-
-
-
-
-VII. Monseigneur in Town
-
-
-Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
-fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
-his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
-the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
-was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
-things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
-rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
-much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
-strong men besides the Cook.
-
-Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
-Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
-pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
-conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
-the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
-the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
-a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
-watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
-dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
-place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
-his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
-men; he must have died of two.
-
-Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
-and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
-a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
-impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
-more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
-state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
-for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
-favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
-days of the merry Stuart who sold it.
-
-Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
-was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
-business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
-his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
-particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
-was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
-by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
-thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”
-
-Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
-his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
-affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
-public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
-must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
-private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
-generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
-Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
-time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
-wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
-poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
-a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
-rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
-mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
-down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
-
-A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
-stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
-waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
-forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
-relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
-among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
-
-For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
-every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
-achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
-reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
-so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
-equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
-have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
-been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
-destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
-civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
-worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
-all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
-pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
-Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
-anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
-score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
-yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
-passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
-no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
-for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
-patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
-discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
-State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
-root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
-they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
-Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
-card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
-Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
-wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
-the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
-since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
-subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
-exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
-notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
-among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
-of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
-the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
-appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
-bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
-towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
-known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
-and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
-supped as at twenty.
-
-The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
-upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
-people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
-things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
-them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
-sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
-whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
-spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
-Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
-three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
-jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
-Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
-out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
-the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
-by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
-discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
-became manifest.
-
-But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
-Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
-ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
-correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
-delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
-swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
-surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
-of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
-languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
-and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
-fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
-his devouring hunger far away.
-
-Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
-things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
-was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
-Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
-of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
-descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
-required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
-and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
-rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
-Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
-him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
-Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
-of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
-hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
-see the very stars out!
-
-Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
-chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
-open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
-fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
-body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
-been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
-troubled it.
-
-Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
-happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
-passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
-Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
-course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
-sprites, and was seen no more.
-
-The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
-and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
-but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
-and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
-way out.
-
-“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
-and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”
-
-With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
-dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
-
-He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
-with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
-feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
-beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
-of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
-change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
-colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
-by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
-treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
-attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
-line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
-too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
-handsome face, and a remarkable one.
-
-Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
-drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
-stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
-in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
-to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
-often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
-charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
-check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
-sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
-that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
-custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
-barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
-time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
-left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
-
-With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
-consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
-dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
-before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
-its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
-wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
-number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
-
-But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
-stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
-behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
-and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
-
-“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
-
-A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
-the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
-down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
-
-“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
-a child.”
-
-“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”
-
-“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”
-
-The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
-into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
-got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
-Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
-
-“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
-their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”
-
-The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
-nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
-and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
-people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
-remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
-and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
-over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
-
-He took out his purse.
-
-“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
-of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
-the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
-him that.”
-
-He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
-craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
-tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”
-
-He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
-made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
-sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
-stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
-were as silent, however, as the men.
-
-“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
-Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
-live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
-as happily?”
-
-“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
-they call you?”
-
-“They call me Defarge.”
-
-“Of what trade?”
-
-“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”
-
-“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
-throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
-there; are they right?”
-
-Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
-Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
-air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
-paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
-disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
-
-“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”
-
-He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
-moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
-the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
-figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
-
-“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
-except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
-willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
-threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
-should be crushed under the wheels.”
-
-So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
-what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
-a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
-But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
-Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
-contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
-leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”
-
-He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
-succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
-Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
-whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
-had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
-on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
-spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
-which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
-bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
-while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
-of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
-had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
-of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
-into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
-time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
-in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
-things ran their course.
-
-
-
-
-VIII. Monseigneur in the Country
-
-
-A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
-Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
-and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
-inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
-tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
-disposition to give up, and wither away.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
-lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
-a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
-no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
-occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
-sun.
-
-The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
-gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
-die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”
-
-In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
-heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
-hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
-quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
-left when the drag was taken off.
-
-But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
-at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
-church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
-fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
-as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
-coming near home.
-
-The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
-tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
-fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
-its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
-shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
-fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
-the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
-were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
-for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
-paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
-the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.
-
-Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
-their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
-terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
-or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
-
-Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
-whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
-if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
-his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
-fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
-He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
-sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
-meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
-truth through the best part of a hundred years.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
-drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
-Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
-drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
-of the roads joined the group.
-
-“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.
-
-The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
-to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
-
-“I passed you on the road?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”
-
-“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true.”
-
-“What did you look at, so fixedly?”
-
-“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”
-
-He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
-carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
-
-“What man, pig? And why look there?”
-
-“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”
-
-“Who?” demanded the traveller.
-
-“Monseigneur, the man.”
-
-“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
-know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”
-
-“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
-all the days of my life, I never saw him.”
-
-“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”
-
-“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
-His head hanging over--like this!”
-
-He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
-face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
-himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
-
-“What was he like?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
-white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”
-
-The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
-eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
-the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
-conscience.
-
-“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
-vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
-and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
-Gabelle!”
-
-Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
-united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
-examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
-official manner.
-
-“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.
-
-“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
-to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”
-
-“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”
-
-“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”
-
-The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
-particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
-half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
-presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
-
-“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
-a person plunges into the river.”
-
-“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”
-
-The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
-wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
-to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
-they might not have been so fortunate.
-
-The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
-rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
-it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
-sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
-gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
-points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
-courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
-
-At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
-with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
-figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
-studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
-dreadfully spare and thin.
-
-To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
-growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
-turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
-presented herself at the carriage-door.
-
-“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”
-
-With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
-Monseigneur looked out.
-
-“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”
-
-“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”
-
-“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
-cannot pay something?”
-
-“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”
-
-“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”
-
-“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
-grass.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”
-
-“Again, well?”
-
-She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
-grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
-with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
-caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
-feel the appealing touch.
-
-“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
-want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”
-
-“Again, well? Can I feed them?”
-
-“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
-that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
-over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
-forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
-shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
-are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
-Monseigneur!”
-
-The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
-a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
-behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
-diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
-his chateau.
-
-The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
-the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
-at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
-of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
-man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
-could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
-in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
-stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
-been extinguished.
-
-The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
-was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
-for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
-of his chateau was opened to him.
-
-“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”
-
-“Monseigneur, not yet.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Gorgon's Head
-
-
-It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
-with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
-staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
-business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
-stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
-all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
-finished, two centuries ago.
-
-Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
-to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
-of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
-flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
-door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
-in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
-save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
-those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
-heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
-
-The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
-hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
-grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
-peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
-was angry.
-
-Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
-Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
-the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
-to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
-others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
-the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
-befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
-The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
-break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
-but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
-pages in the history of France.
-
-A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
-room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
-lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
-closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
-black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
-
-“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
-said he was not arrived.”
-
-Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
-
-“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
-table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
-
-In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
-sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
-he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
-lips, when he put it down.
-
-“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
-horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
-
-“Monseigneur? That?”
-
-“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”
-
-It was done.
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
-here.”
-
-The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
-the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
-for instructions.
-
-“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”
-
-That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
-half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
-hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
-front of the chateau.
-
-“Ask who is arrived.”
-
-It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
-Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
-rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
-He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
-
-He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
-there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
-He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
-
-Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
-hands.
-
-“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
-seat at table.
-
-“Yesterday. And you?”
-
-“I come direct.”
-
-“From London?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.
-
-“On the contrary; I come direct.”
-
-“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
-intending the journey.”
-
-“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
-answer--“various business.”
-
-“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.
-
-So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
-When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
-looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
-fine mask, opened a conversation.
-
-“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
-took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
-a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
-sustained me.”
-
-“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”
-
-“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
-the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”
-
-The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
-lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
-graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
-breeding that it was not reassuring.
-
-“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
-expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
-circumstances that surrounded me.”
-
-“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.
-
-“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
-deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
-and would know no scruple as to means.”
-
-“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
-two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”
-
-“I recall it.”
-
-“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
-
-His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
-instrument.
-
-“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
-bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
-France here.”
-
-“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
-“Dare I ask you to explain?”
-
-“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
-been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
-have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”
-
-“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
-of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
-Pray excuse me!”
-
-“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
-yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.
-
-“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
-politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
-consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
-your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
-yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
-at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
-aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
-might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
-and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
-(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
-things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
-of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
-dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
-one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
-some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
-lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
-assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
-to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
-bad!”
-
-The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
-as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
-containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
-
-“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
-time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
-more detested than any name in France.”
-
-“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
-involuntary homage of the low.”
-
-“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
-look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
-deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”
-
-“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
-merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
-Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
-crossed his legs.
-
-But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
-thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
-him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
-and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
-indifference.
-
-“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
-and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
-obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
-out the sky.”
-
-That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
-chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
-they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
-him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
-the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
-he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
-way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
-was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
-
-“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
-of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
-terminate our conference for the night?”
-
-“A moment more.”
-
-“An hour, if you please.”
-
-“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
-of wrong.”
-
-“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
-and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
-
-“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
-to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
-a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
-our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
-when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
-inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”
-
-“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.
-
-“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
-frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
-execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
-look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
-redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”
-
-“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
-breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
-will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”
-
-Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
-cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
-quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
-touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
-a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
-body, and said,
-
-“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
-lived.”
-
-When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
-box in his pocket.
-
-“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
-bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
-Monsieur Charles, I see.”
-
-“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
-renounce them.”
-
-“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
-is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”
-
-“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
-to me from you, to-morrow--”
-
-“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”
-
-“--or twenty years hence--”
-
-“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
-supposition.”
-
-“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
-relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
-
-“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
-under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
-mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
-and suffering.”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
-
-“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
-qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
-weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
-it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
-another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
-on it, and on all this land.”
-
-“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
-philosophy, graciously intend to live?”
-
-“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
-their backs, may have to do some day--work.”
-
-“In England, for example?”
-
-“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
-family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”
-
-The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
-lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
-Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
-valet.
-
-“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
-prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
-with a smile.
-
-“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
-be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”
-
-“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
-know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“With a daughter?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
-in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
-which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
-time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
-straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
-looked handsomely diabolic.
-
-“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
-commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
-outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
-looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
-
-“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
-again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
-chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
-added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
-valet to his own bedroom.
-
-The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
-loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
-night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
-noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
-enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
-periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
-coming on.
-
-He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
-scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
-toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
-prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
-the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
-chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
-the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
-tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”
-
-“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”
-
-So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
-gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
-with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
-
-The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
-for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
-rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
-very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
-the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
-hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
-
-For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
-stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
-dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
-The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
-were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
-have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
-taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
-the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
-the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
-freed.
-
-The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
-at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
-minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
-hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
-and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
-
-Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
-trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
-of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
-crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
-weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
-the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
-At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
-mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
-
-Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
-windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
-shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
-lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
-fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
-and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
-out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
-and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
-prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
-foot.
-
-The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
-surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
-reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
-now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
-round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
-doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
-pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
-
-All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
-return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
-chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
-figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
-everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
-
-What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
-at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
-much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
-peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
-to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
-no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
-down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
-fountain.
-
-All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
-in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
-emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
-in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
-on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
-trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
-the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
-all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
-on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
-highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
-into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
-himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
-and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
-a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
-(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
-the German ballad of Leonora?
-
-It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
-
-The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
-the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
-through about two hundred years.
-
-It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
-mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
-heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
-was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
-
-“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”
-
-
-
-
-X. Two Promises
-
-
-More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
-Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
-language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
-would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
-young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
-living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
-its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
-sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
-at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
-to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
-dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
-tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
-profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
-work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
-known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
-circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
-So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
-
-In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
-to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
-would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
-did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
-
-A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
-read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
-contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
-and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
-London.
-
-Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
-when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
-invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
-woman.
-
-He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
-heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
-he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
-confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
-him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
-at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
-long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
-mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
-much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
-
-That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
-summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
-he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
-of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
-day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
-
-He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
-which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
-their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
-very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
-of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
-sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
-exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
-frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
-
-He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
-ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
-sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
-
-“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
-return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
-both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”
-
-“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
-a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
-Manette--”
-
-“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
-delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
-soon be home.”
-
-“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
-being from home, to beg to speak to you.”
-
-There was a blank silence.
-
-“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
-and speak on.”
-
-He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
-easy.
-
-“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
- so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
-on which I am about to touch may not--”
-
-He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
-had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
-
-“Is Lucie the topic?”
-
-“She is.”
-
-“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
-to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”
-
-“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
-Manette!” he said deferentially.
-
-There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
-
-“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”
-
-His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
-originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
-Darnay hesitated.
-
-“Shall I go on, sir?”
-
-Another blank.
-
-“Yes, go on.”
-
-“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
-I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
-the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
-laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
-disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
-her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”
-
-The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
-ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
-and cried:
-
-“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”
-
-His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
-Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
-extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
-so received it, and remained silent.
-
-“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
-moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”
-
-He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
-raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
-overshadowed his face:
-
-“Have you spoken to Lucie?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Nor written?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
-to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
-you.”
-
-He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
-
-“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
-Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
-you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
-belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
-can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
-child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
-with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
-is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
-itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
-now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
-years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
-early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
-you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
-hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
-in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
-you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
-neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
-own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
-loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
-have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”
-
-Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
-little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
-
-“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
-with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
-long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
-now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
-your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
-Heaven is my witness that I love her!”
-
-“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
-before now. I believe it.”
-
-“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
-struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
-that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
-put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
-word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
-should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
-a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
-heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
-now touch this honoured hand.”
-
-He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
-
-“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
-you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
-you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
-in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
-life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
-with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
-come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”
-
-His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
-moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
-his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
-conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
-occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
-
-“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
-you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
-you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”
-
-“None. As yet, none.”
-
-“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
-ascertain that, with my knowledge?”
-
-“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
-might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”
-
-“Do you seek any guidance from me?”
-
-“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
-in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”
-
-“Do you seek any promise from me?”
-
-“I do seek that.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
-understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
-innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
-could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”
-
-“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”
-
-“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
-favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
-Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
-word, to save my life.”
-
-“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
-well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
-delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
-respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
-heart.”
-
-“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
-supplied the rest.
-
-“Is sought by any other suitor?”
-
-“It is what I meant to say.”
-
-Her father considered a little before he answered:
-
-“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
-occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”
-
-“Or both,” said Darnay.
-
-“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
-a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”
-
-“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
-part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
-bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
-may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
-me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
-condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
-require, I will observe immediately.”
-
-“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
-your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
-believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
-between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
-that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
-If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”
-
-The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
-the Doctor spoke:
-
-“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
-new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
-thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
-sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
-than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”
-
-So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
-his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
-hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
-
-“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
-“What was it you said to me?”
-
-He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
-condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
-
-“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
-part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
-not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
-why I am in England.”
-
-“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.
-
-“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
-secret from you.”
-
-“Stop!”
-
-For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
-another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
-
-“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
-should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
-promise?”
-
-“Willingly.
-
-“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
-should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”
-
-It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
-darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
-Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
-reading-chair empty.
-
-“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”
-
-Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
-bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
-his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
-blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”
-
-Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
-his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
-her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
-together for a long time.
-
-She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
-slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
-work, were all as usual.
-
-
-
-
-XI. A Companion Picture
-
-
-“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
-jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”
-
-Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
-and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
-a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
-of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
-arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
-November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
-bring grist to the mill again.
-
-Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
-application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
-through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
-the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
-his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
-intervals for the last six hours.
-
-“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
-his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
-his back.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
-surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
-shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”
-
-“_Do_ you?”
-
-“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”
-
-“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“Do I know her?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
-frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
-me to dinner.”
-
-“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
-posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
-because you are such an insensible dog.”
-
-“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
-sensitive and poetical spirit--”
-
-“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
-any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
-I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”
-
-“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”
-
-“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”
-
-“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.
-
-“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
-inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
-be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
-to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”
-
-“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
-way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
-as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
-moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
-hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
-Sydney!”
-
-“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
-be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
-to me.”
-
-“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
-rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
-to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
-fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”
-
-Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
-
-“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
-myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
-Why do I do it?”
-
-“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.
-
-“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
-get on.”
-
-“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
- answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
-to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”
-
-He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
-
-“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
-delivered in no very soothing tone.
-
-“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
-“Who is the lady?”
-
-“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
-Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
-for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
-half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
-make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
-me in slighting terms.”
-
-“I did?”
-
-“Certainly; and in these chambers.”
-
-Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
-drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
-
-“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
-lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
-delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
-little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
-You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
-think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
-a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
-of mine, who had no ear for music.”
-
-Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
-looking at his friend.
-
-“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
-fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
-please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
-will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
-and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
-but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
-astonished?”
-
-“You approve?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”
-
-“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
-you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
-be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
-ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
-enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
-feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
-inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
-that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
-credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
-say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
-know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
-you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
-you really ought to think about a nurse.”
-
-The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
-big as he was, and four times as offensive.
-
-“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
-I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
-you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
-you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
-understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
-respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
-or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
-kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”
-
-“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.
-
-
-
-
-XII. The Fellow of Delicacy
-
-
-Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
-fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
-to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
-debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
-well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
-at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
-before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
-and Hilary.
-
-As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
-saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
-grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
-plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
-plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
-the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
-consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
-case could be.
-
-Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
-proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
-Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
-himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
-
-Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
-while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
-Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
-on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
-along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
-seen how safe and strong he was.
-
-His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
-knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
-Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
-of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
-in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
-cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
-Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
-bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
-under the clouds were a sum.
-
-“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”
-
-It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
-place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
-in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
-squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
-the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
-the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
-
-The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
-recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
-you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
-of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
-hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
-self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
-
-“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
-business character.
-
-“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
-have come for a private word.”
-
-“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
-to the House afar off.
-
-“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
-desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
-be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
-in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
-visitor dubiously.
-
-“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
-What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
-appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
-my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
-Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
-manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
-“you know there really is so much too much of you!”
-
-“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
-opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
-Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”
-
-Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
-end, and bit the feather of a pen.
-
-“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”
-
-“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
-eligible, you are eligible.”
-
-“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.
-
-“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“And advancing?”
-
-“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
-able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”
-
-“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
-perceptibly crestfallen.
-
-“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
-
-“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”
-
-“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
-shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
-have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”
-
-“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
-having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”
-
-“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
-Stryver.
-
-“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
-a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
-complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
-head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
-been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
-
-“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
-when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
-causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
-lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
-young lady. The young lady goes before all.”
-
-“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
-elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
-present in question is a mincing Fool?”
-
-“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
-reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
-from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
-taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
-not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
-this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
-mind.”
-
-The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
-blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
-Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
-no better state now it was his turn.
-
-“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
-be no mistake about it.”
-
-Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
-hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
-toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
-
-“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
-to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
-bar?”
-
-“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”
-
-“Yes, I do.”
-
-“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”
-
-“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
-this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”
-
-“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
-not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
-business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
-Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
-of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
-spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
-may not be right?”
-
-“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
-parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
-in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
-new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”
-
-“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
-understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
-will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
-gentleman breathing.”
-
-“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.
-
-“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
-painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
-Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
-painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
-know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
-the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
-in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
-little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
-it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
-soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
-with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
-best spared. What do you say?”
-
-“How long would you keep me in town?”
-
-“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
-evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”
-
-“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
-hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
-in to-night. Good morning.”
-
-Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
-concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
-bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
-of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
-always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
-believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
-the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
-
-The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
-gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
-moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
-swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
-forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
-out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”
-
-It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
-great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
-Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”
-
-Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
-Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
-purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
-the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
-altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.
-
-“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
-bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
-Soho.”
-
-“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
-thinking of!”
-
-“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
-conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
-advice.”
-
-“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
-am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
-account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
-us say no more about it.”
-
-“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
-final way; “no matter, no matter.”
-
-“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.
-
-“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
-sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
-not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
-done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
-repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
-aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
-a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
-glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
-for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
-have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
-proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
-certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
-that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
-giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
-will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
-I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
-And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
-and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
-you were right, it never would have done.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
-Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
-showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
-“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
-thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”
-
-Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
-was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy
-
-
-If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
-house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
-and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
-cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
-which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
-pierced by the light within him.
-
-And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
-and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
-he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
-transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
-figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
-of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
-in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
-brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
-into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
-him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
-it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
-neighbourhood.
-
-On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
-that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
-delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
-City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
-for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
-those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
-animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
-they took him to the Doctor's door.
-
-He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
-never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
-embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
-his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
-a change in it.
-
-“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
-is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”
-
-“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
-live no better life?”
-
-“God knows it is a shame!”
-
-“Then why not change it?”
-
-Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
-there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
-answered:
-
-“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
-sink lower, and be worse.”
-
-He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
-table trembled in the silence that followed.
-
-She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
-be so, without looking at her, and said:
-
-“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
-what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”
-
-“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
-it would make me very glad!”
-
-“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”
-
-He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
-
-“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
-one who died young. All my life might have been.”
-
-“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
-sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”
-
-“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
-mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
-it!”
-
-She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
-of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
-been holden.
-
-“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
-love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
-poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
-conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
-bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
-disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
-no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
-be.”
-
-“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
-you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
-confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
-little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
-no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
-
-He shook his head.
-
-“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
-little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
-you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
-been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
-home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
-died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
-I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
-old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
-have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
-sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
-a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
-but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
-
-“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
-
-“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
-undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
-weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
-heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
-its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
-service, idly burning away.”
-
-“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
-than you were before you knew me--”
-
-“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
-anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
-
-“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
-attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
-make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
-good, with you, at all?”
-
-“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
-here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
-the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
-and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
-deplore and pity.”
-
-“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
-all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
-and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
-me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
-was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
-alone, and will be shared by no one?”
-
-“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”
-
-“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
-yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”
-
-“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”
-
-He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
-
-“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
-conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
-again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
-the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
-shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
-to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
-in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”
-
-He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
-sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
-down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
-stood looking back at her.
-
-“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
-hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
-but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
-wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
-shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
-what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
-to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”
-
-“I will, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
-you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
-between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
-it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
-you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
-there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
-embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
-me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
-thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
-ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
-and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
-grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
-happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
-beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
-a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”
-
-He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Honest Tradesman
-
-
-To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
-Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
-variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
-upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
-not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
-westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
-both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
-the sun goes down!
-
-With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
-like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
-watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
-running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
-since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
-women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
-Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
-companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
-to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
-have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
-the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
-purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
-
-Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
-the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
-but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
-
-It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
-few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
-unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
-Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
-unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
-attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
-funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
-funeral, which engendered uproar.
-
-“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
-buryin'.”
-
-“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.
-
-The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
-significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
-his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
-
-“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
-to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
-_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
-let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
-hear?”
-
-“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
-
-“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
-harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
-
-His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
-round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
-there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
-considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
-appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
-surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
-incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
- with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
-
-Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
-always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
-Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
-excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
-
-“What is it, brother? What's it about?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
-
-He asked another man. “Who is it?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
-nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
-greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
-
-At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
-against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
-funeral of one Roger Cly.
-
-“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
-Spi--i--ies!”
-
-“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
-assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”
-
-“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
-out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”
-
-The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
-that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
-suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
-so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
-doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
-for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
-that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
-shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
-other symbolical tears.
-
-These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
-enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
-crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
-They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
-out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
-its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
-much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
-the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
-while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
-exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
-was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
-the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
-coach.
-
-The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
-the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
-remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
-members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
-The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
-hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
-close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
-by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
-popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
-ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
-bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
-that part of the procession in which he walked.
-
-Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
-caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
-at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
-was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
-in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
-accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
-highly to its own satisfaction.
-
-The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
-providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
-genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
-passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
-was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
-the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
-they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
-window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
-and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
-been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
-the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
-coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
-the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
-progress of a mob.
-
-Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
-behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
-The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
-neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
-maturely considering the spot.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
-“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
-was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”
-
-Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
-himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
-station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
-his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
-amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
-man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
-his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
-
-Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
-job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
-usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
-
-“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
-entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
-shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
-for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
-
-The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
-
-“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
-angry apprehension.
-
-“I am saying nothing.”
-
-“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
-You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
-yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
-but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
-ironical dissatisfaction.
-
-“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
-bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
-oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
-
-“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
-another bite.
-
-“Yes, I am.”
-
-“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
-
-“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
-where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”
-
-“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”
-
-“Never you mind.”
-
-“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
-
-“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
-gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
-going out, till you've been long abed.”
-
-He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
-most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
-conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
-to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
-conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
-on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
-he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
-person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
-honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
-professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
-
-“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
-honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
-of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
-tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
-on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
-customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”
-
-Then he began grumbling again:
-
-“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
-know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
-flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
-your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
-and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”
-
-This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
-perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
-all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
-function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
-
-Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
-was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
-obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
-solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
-o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
-took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
-forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
-fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
-in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
-extinguished the light, and went out.
-
-Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
-bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
-followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
-court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
-his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
-door stood ajar all night.
-
-Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
-father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
-walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
-honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
-gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
-the two trudged on together.
-
-Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
-winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
-lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
-that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
-second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
-himself into two.
-
-The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
-under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
-brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
-wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
-the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
-Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
-Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
-defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
-He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
-third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
-there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
-and knees.
-
-It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
-holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
-in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
-and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
-that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
-tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
-creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
-fish.
-
-They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
-appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
-Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
-striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
-with his hair as stiff as his father's.
-
-But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
-only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
-were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
-the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
-screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
-strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
-earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
-it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
-wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
-made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
-
-He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
-it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
-to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
-was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
-upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
-and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
-shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
-was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
-roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
-like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
-too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
-to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
-and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
-incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
-got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
-it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
-stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
-his breast when he fell asleep.
-
-From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
-daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
-family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
-inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
-ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
-bed.
-
-“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
-
-“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.
-
-“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
-and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
-you?”
-
-“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.
-
-“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
-honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
-husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”
-
-“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”
-
-“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
-honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
-when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
-wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
-woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
-no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
-of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”
-
-The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
-the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
-at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
-his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
-down too, and fell asleep again.
-
-There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
-Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
-by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
-he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
-and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
-ostensible calling.
-
-Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
-along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
-from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
-solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
-and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
-improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
-that fine morning.
-
-“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
-at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
-Resurrection-Man?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
-should I know?”
-
-“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.
-
-“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
-hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”
-
-“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.
-
-“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
-branch of Scientific goods.”
-
-“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.
-
-“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
-growed up!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
-“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
-your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
-there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
-for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
-to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
-himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
-yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”
-
-
-
-
-XV. Knitting
-
-
-There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
-Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
-through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
-measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
-of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
-he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
-influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
-vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
-Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
-the dregs of it.
-
-This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
-early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
-on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
-brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
-slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
-not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
-were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
-have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
-and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
-looks.
-
-Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
-was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
-threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
-only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
-wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
-and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
-humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
-
-A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
-observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
-at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
-gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
-towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
-of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
-with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
-a long way off.
-
-Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
-high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
-his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
-mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
-the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
-of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
-flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
-followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
-the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
-
-“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
-an answering chorus of “Good day!”
-
-“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.
-
-Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
-their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
-
-“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
-travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
-Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
-He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
-drink, my wife!”
-
-A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
-mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
-and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
-bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
-Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
-
-Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
-than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
-rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
-He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
-Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
-
-“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.
-
-“Yes, thank you.”
-
-“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
-occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”
-
-Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
-courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
-staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
-sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
-
-No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
-gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
-man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
-him through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
-
-“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
-encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
-Speak, Jacques Five!”
-
-The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
-it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”
-
-“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
-commencement.”
-
-“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
-running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
-chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
-going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
-hanging by the chain--like this.”
-
-Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
-he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
-the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
-during a whole year.
-
-Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
-
-“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
-
-Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
-
-“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
-finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
-'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”
-
-“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.
-
-“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
-confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
-offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
-standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
-My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”
-
-“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
-interrupted. “Go on!”
-
-“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
-is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”
-
-“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
-he is unluckily found. Go on!”
-
-“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
-go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
-village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
-coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
-with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”
-
-With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
-elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
-
-“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
-and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
-spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
-see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
-that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
-going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
-their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
-road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
-Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
-with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
-to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
-be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
-on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”
-
-He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
-vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
-
-“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
-show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
-our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
-village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
-follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
-shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
-consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”
-
-He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
-butt-ends of muskets.
-
-“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
-laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
-but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
-the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
-and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
-darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”
-
-He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
-snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
-opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”
-
-“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
-voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
-village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
-locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
-except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
-my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
-my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
-iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
-hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
-dead man.”
-
-Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
-of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
-countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
-authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
-and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
-his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
-intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
-over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
-standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
-light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
-him.
-
-“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.
-
-“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
-at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
-distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
-of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
-faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
-the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
-whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
-executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
-that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
-that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
-It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”
-
-“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
-“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
-yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
-sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
-hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
-his hand.”
-
-“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
-his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
-strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
-food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
-and struck him blows. You hear?”
-
-“I hear, messieurs.”
-
-“Go on then,” said Defarge.
-
-“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
-countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
-the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
-that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
-father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
-parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
-with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
-which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
-poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
-that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
-says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
-the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
-I am not a scholar.”
-
-“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
-and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
-all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
-nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
-the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
-attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
-when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
-done--why, how old are you?”
-
-“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
-
-“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
-it.”
-
-“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
-on.”
-
-“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
-even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
-night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
-the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
-Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
-the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
-water.”
-
-The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
-and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
-
-“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
-the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
-have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
-of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
-a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
-laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
-from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
-fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
-there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”
-
-They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
-on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
-spectacle.
-
-“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
-water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
-I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
-bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
-across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
-messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”
-
-The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
-three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
-
-“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
-and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
-warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
-walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
-you see me!”
-
-After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
-and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
-door?”
-
-“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
-top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
-
-The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
-the garret.
-
-“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”
-
-“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.
-
-“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.
-
-“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”
-
-The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
-gnawing another finger.
-
-“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
-can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
-safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
-be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”
-
-“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
-undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
-a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
-own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
-Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
-to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
-crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”
-
-There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
-hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
-very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”
-
-“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
-easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
-with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
-on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
-Court; let him see them on Sunday.”
-
-“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
-wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”
-
-“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
-to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
-him to bring it down one day.”
-
-Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
-dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
-pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
-asleep.
-
-Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
-in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
-dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
-new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
-unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
-his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
-he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
-contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
-might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
-into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
-murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
-with it until the play was played out.
-
-Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
-(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
-and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
-madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
-additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
-afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
-see the carriage of the King and Queen.
-
-“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.
-
-“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”
-
-“What do you make, madame?”
-
-“Many things.”
-
-“For instance--”
-
-“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”
-
-The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
-of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
-and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
-fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
-and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
-shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
-ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
-and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
-sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
-intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
-Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
-ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
-terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
-more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
-with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
-hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
-and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
-from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
-pieces.
-
-“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
-patron; “you are a good boy!”
-
-The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
-having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
-
-“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
-these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
-insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”
-
-“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”
-
-“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
-stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
-in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
-tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
-deceive them too much.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
-confirmation.
-
-“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
-it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”
-
-“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
-pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
-pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly yes, madame.”
-
-“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
-set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
-you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”
-
-“It is true, madame.”
-
-“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
-a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
-“now, go home!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI. Still Knitting
-
-
-Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
-bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
-darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
-the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
-the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
-the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
-for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
-scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
-stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
-terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
-the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
-village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
-when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
-faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
-up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
-look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
-stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
-was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
-everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
-scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
-crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
-skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
-started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
-who could find a living there.
-
-Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
-stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
-of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
-night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
-world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
-star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
-the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
-the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
-vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
-
-The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
-in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
-journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
-guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
-examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
-of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
-with, and affectionately embraced.
-
-When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
-and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
-picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
-streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
-
-“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
-
-“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
-commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
-can say, but he knows of one.”
-
-“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
-business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
-man?”
-
-“He is English.”
-
-“So much the better. His name?”
-
-“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
-been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
-correctness.
-
-“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”
-
-“John.”
-
-“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
-“Good. His appearance; is it known?”
-
-“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
-complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
-thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
-sinister.”
-
-“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
-registered to-morrow.”
-
-They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
-and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
-the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
-stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
-her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
-dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
-of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
-handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
-night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
-up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
-condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
-walked up and down through life.
-
-The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
-neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
-by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
-it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
-whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
-
-“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
-money. “There are only the usual odours.”
-
-“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.
-
-“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
-never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
-him. “Oh, the men, the men!”
-
-“But my dear!” began Defarge.
-
-“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
-faint of heart to-night, my dear!”
-
-“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
-breast, “it _is_ a long time.”
-
-“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
-Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”
-
-“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
-Defarge.
-
-“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
-the lightning? Tell me.”
-
-Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
-too.
-
-“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
-swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
-earthquake?”
-
-“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.
-
-“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
-before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
-seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”
-
-She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
-
-“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
-“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
-coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
-is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
-that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
-the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
-more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
-you.”
-
-“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
-a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
-attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
-it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
-it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”
-
-“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
-were another enemy strangled.
-
-“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
-“We shall not see the triumph.”
-
-“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
-strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
-my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
-certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
-would--”
-
-Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
-
-“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
-cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”
-
-“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
-and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
-When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
-time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”
-
-Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
-little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
-out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
-manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
-
-Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
-wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
-now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
-usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
-drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
-and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
-perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
-dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
-out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
-themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
-the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
-thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
-
-A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
-felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
-rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
-
-It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
-customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
-wine-shop.
-
-“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.
-
-“Good day, monsieur.”
-
-She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
-“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
-hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
-thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
-expression! Good day, one and all!”
-
-“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
-mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
-
-Madame complied with a polite air.
-
-“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
-
-It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
-Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
-however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
-visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
-of observing the place in general.
-
-“You knit with great skill, madame.”
-
-“I am accustomed to it.”
-
-“A pretty pattern too!”
-
-“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
-
-“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
-
-“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
-fingers moved nimbly.
-
-“Not for use?”
-
-“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
-madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
-coquetry, “I'll use it!”
-
-It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
-decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
-men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
-catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
-looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
-Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
-one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
-but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
-poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
-unimpeachable.
-
-“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
-and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
-'BARSAD' before you go.”
-
-“You have a husband, madame?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“Children?”
-
-“No children.”
-
-“Business seems bad?”
-
-“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
-
-“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”
-
-“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
-extra something into his name that boded him no good.
-
-“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
-Of course.”
-
-“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
-enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
-think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
-it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
-embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”
-
-The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
-not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
-stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
-Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
-
-“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
-Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
-
-“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
-for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
-price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”
-
-“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
-that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
-susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
-is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
-fellow? Between ourselves.”
-
-“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.
-
-“Is there not?”
-
-“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.
-
-As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
-him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
-Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
-
-“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
-confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
-
-“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
-“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”
-
-“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
-day!”
-
-“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.
-
-“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
-you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
-and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”
-
-“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
-of it.”
-
-Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
-hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
-person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
-have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
-attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
-water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
-out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
-it.
-
-“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
- observed Defarge.
-
-“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
-in its miserable inhabitants.”
-
-“Hah!” muttered Defarge.
-
-“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
- pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
-associations with your name.”
-
-“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.
-
-“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
-had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
-informed of the circumstances?”
-
-“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
-to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
-warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
-
-“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
-from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
-monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
-Tellson and Company--over to England.”
-
-“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.
-
-“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
-Manette and his daughter, in England.”
-
-“Yes?” said Defarge.
-
-“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.
-
-“No,” said Defarge.
-
-“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
-song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
-arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
-they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
-no correspondence.”
-
-“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”
-
-“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
-ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”
-
-“Oh! You know I am English.”
-
-“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
-suppose the man is.”
-
-He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
-of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
-end, he added:
-
-“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
-one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
-poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
-going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
-was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
-Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
-Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”
-
-Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
-effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
-as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
-troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
-spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
-
-Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
-worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
-paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
-in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
-pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
-after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
-husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
-come back.
-
-“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
-as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
-said of Ma'amselle Manette?”
-
-“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
-is probably false. But it may be true.”
-
-“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.
-
-“If it is?” repeated his wife.
-
-“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
-sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”
-
-“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
-“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
-to end him. That is all I know.”
-
-“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
-Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
-“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
-husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
-the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”
-
-“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
-madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
-for their merits; that is enough.”
-
-She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
-took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
-Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
-decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
-disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
-shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
-
-In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
-himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
-to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
-Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
-to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
-her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
-knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
-mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
-jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
-the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
-
-But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
-Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
-among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
-behind.
-
-Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
-great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
-grand woman!”
-
-Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
-the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
-the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
-darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
-pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
-thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
-wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
-Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
-knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
-a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
-counting dropping heads.
-
-
-
-
-XVII. One Night
-
-
-Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
-Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
-under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
-radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
-seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
-
-Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
-for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
-
-“You are happy, my dear father?”
-
-“Quite, my child.”
-
-They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
-was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
-in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
-both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
-time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
-
-“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
-love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
-for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
-if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
-the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
-self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”
-
-Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
-
-In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
-upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
-the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
-its going.
-
-“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
-quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
-ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
-own heart, do you feel quite certain?”
-
-Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
-scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
-added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
-seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
-was--without it.”
-
-“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”
-
-“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
-it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
-fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
-wasted--”
-
-She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
-the word.
-
-“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
-natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
-comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
-how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”
-
-“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
-with you.”
-
-He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
-without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
-
-“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
-Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
-should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
-cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”
-
-It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
-refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
-sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
-afterwards.
-
-“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
-“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
-light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
-of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
-my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
-that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
-could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
-with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
-manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
-and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”
-
-The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
-deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
-the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
-cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
-
-“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
-child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
-been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
-was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
-imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
-was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
-to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
-will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
-
-She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
-
-“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
-me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
-cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
-to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
-the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
-blank.”
-
-“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
-never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
-
-“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
-brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
-the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”
-
-“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”
-
-“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
-have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
-like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
-foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
-leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
-image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
-her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
-But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”
-
-“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”
-
-“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
-sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
-and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
-that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
-have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
-I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
-perplexed distinctions.”
-
-His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
-cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
-
-“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
-coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
-life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
-was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
-cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”
-
-“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
-that was I.”
-
-“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
-they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
-a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
-up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
-imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
-But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
-blessed her.”
-
-“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
-me as fervently to-morrow?”
-
-“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
-for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
-happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
-happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”
-
-He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
-Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
-house.
-
-There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
-be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
-change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
-by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
-apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
-
-Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
-three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
-was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
-little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
-
-So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
-But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
-downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
-beforehand.
-
-All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
-asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
-hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
-shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
-then, leaned over him, and looked at him.
-
-Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
-covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
-mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
-resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
-beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
-
-She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
-she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
-sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
-more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
-of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
-in praying for him.
-
-
-
-
-XVIII. Nine Days
-
-
-The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
-closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
-Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
-Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
-reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
-but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
-have been the bridegroom.
-
-“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
-and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
-pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
-you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
-what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
-on my friend Mr. Charles!”
-
-“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
-therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”
-
-“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”
-
-“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
-on occasion.)
-
-“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
-a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
-anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
-Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
-I couldn't see it.”
-
-“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
-had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
-invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
-speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
-might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”
-
-“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.
-
-“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
-gentleman of that name.
-
-“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
-
-“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
-seems probable, too.”
-
-“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
-were put in your cradle.”
-
-“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
-with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
-pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
-her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
-I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
-opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
-your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
-own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
-fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
-shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
-the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
-your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
-him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
-Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
-old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
-own.”
-
-For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
-well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
-golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
-delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
-
-The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
-Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
-went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
-But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
-shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
-old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
-wind.
-
-He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
-which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
-another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
-eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
-
-Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
-group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
-glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
-dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
-breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
-mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
-mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
-door at parting.
-
-It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
-cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
-enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”
-
-And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
-gone.
-
-The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
-preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
-and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
-the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
-change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
-there, had struck him a poisoned blow.
-
-He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
-expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
-the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
-manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
-room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
-wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
-
-“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
-think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
-I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
-presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
-there, and all will be well.”
-
-It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
-Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
-old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
-into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
-
-“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”
-
-Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
-lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
-He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”
-
-Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
-Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
-when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
-down, and he was very busy.
-
-“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”
-
-The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
-were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.
-
-He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
-throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
-haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
-hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
-shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
-him, and asked what it was.
-
-“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
-ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”
-
-“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”
-
-He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
-his work.
-
-“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
-occupation. Think, dear friend!”
-
-Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
-a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
-a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
-words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
-the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
-he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
-seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
-trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.
-
-Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
-all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
-the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
-conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
-precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
-few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
-on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
-called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
-two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
-addressed to her by the same post.
-
-These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
-the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
-another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
-thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
-
-In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
-being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
-attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
-therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
-first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
-room.
-
-He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
-to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
-attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
-before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
-fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
-window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
-natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
-
-Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
-that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
-after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
-When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
-and said to him:
-
-“Will you go out?”
-
-He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
-looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
-
-“Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
-Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
-with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
-some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
-business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
-
-Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
-at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
-time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
-fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
-bench and to work.
-
-On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
-and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
-returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
-that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
-to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
-at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
-present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
-amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
-enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
-friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
-appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
-him.
-
-When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
-
-“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”
-
-As before, he repeated, “Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
-from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
-meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
-sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
-slipped away to his bench.
-
-The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
-heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
-The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
-seven days, eight days, nine days.
-
-With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
-heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
-well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
-observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
-was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
-his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
-the dusk of the ninth evening.
-
-
-
-
-XIX. An Opinion
-
-
-Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
-tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
-into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
-night.
-
-He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
-done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
-Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
-and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
-at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
-Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
-studious and attentive.
-
-Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
-giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
-not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
-friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
-as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
-which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
-
-It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
-answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
-corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
-How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
-Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
-Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?
-
-Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
-had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
-resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
-He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
-breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
-had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
-Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
-the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
-
-Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
-out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
-toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
-white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
-usual way, and came to breakfast.
-
-So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
-delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
-advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
-place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
-the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
-counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
-he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
-he sought. And that aid was his own.
-
-Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
-Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
-
-“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
-very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
-very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
-so.”
-
-Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
-Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
-at his hands more than once.
-
-“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
-arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
-give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
-for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”
-
-“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
-shock--?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”
-
-Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
-
-“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
-of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
-the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
-shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
-long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
-are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
-which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
-himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
-the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
-be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
-great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
-stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
-there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”
-
-The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”
-
-“Nine days and nights.”
-
-“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
-resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”
-
-“That is the fact.”
-
-“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
-collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
-originally?”
-
-“Once.”
-
-“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
-respects--as he was then?”
-
-“I think in all respects.”
-
-“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”
-
-“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
-It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”
-
-The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
-very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
-the two spoke for a little while.
-
-“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
-considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
-and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
-possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
-intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
-I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
-relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
-be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
-about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
-more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
-if I knew how.
-
-“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
-knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
-able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
-Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
-and teach me how to be a little more useful.”
-
-Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
-Mr. Lorry did not press him.
-
-“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
-“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
-unforeseen by its subject.”
-
-“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
-
-“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
-
-“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
-mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
-himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”
-
-“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
-upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
-him?”
-
-“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
-believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”
-
-“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
-after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
-attack?”
-
-“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
-extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
-was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
-distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
-there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
-would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
-particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
-effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”
-
-“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
-with natural hesitation.
-
-The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
-answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
-
-“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
-
-“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
-great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
-should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
-something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
-and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
-the worst was over.”
-
-“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
-
-“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
-be instructed. I may go on?”
-
-“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
-hand.
-
-“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
-he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
-knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
-he do too much?”
-
-“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
-singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
-part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
-things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
-direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”
-
-“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
-
-“I think I am quite sure of it.”
-
-“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”
-
-“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
-violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
-
-“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
-that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
-disorder?”
-
-“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
-firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
-association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
-extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
-happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
-such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
-believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”
-
-He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
-would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
-confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
-endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
-confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
-really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
-be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
-conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
-last nine days, he knew that he must face it.
-
-“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
-so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
-will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
-case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
-time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
-found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
-him?”
-
-The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
-nervously on the ground.
-
-“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
-his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”
-
-Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
-ground.
-
-“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
-understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
-shook his head, and stopped.
-
-“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
-“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
-of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
-occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
-his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
-the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
-practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
-torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
-quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
-himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
-of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
-find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
-fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
-
-He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
-face.
-
-“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
-who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
-bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
-the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
-with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
-forge?”
-
-There was another silence.
-
-“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
-companion.”
-
-“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
-in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
-sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
-Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
-sake, my dear Manette!”
-
-Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
-
-“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
-it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
-let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
-passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
-three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
-day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
-had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
-explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
-she had no suspicions.
-
-On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
-his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
-carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
-guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
-Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
-which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
-burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
-purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
-shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
-and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
-while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
-traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
-crime.
-
-
-
-
-XX. A Plea
-
-
-When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
-offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
-many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
-in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
-about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
-
-He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
-speaking to him when no one overheard.
-
-“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
-
-“We are already friends, I hope.”
-
-“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
-mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
-friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
-
-Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
-good-fellowship, what he did mean?
-
-“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
-in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
-remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
-usual?”
-
-“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
-you had been drinking.”
-
-“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
-always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
-when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
-preach.”
-
-“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
-to me.”
-
-“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
-away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
-you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
-wish you would forget it.”
-
-“I forgot it long ago.”
-
-“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
-me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
-and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
-
-“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
-for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
-surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
-faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
-Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
-remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”
-
-“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
-you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
-don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
-say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”
-
-“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
-quarrel with _your_ light answer.”
-
-“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
-I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
-incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
-ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”
-
-“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
-
-“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
-any good, and never will.”
-
-“I don't know that you 'never will.'”
-
-“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
-to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
-reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
-permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
-be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
-resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
-furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
-doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
-should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
-dare say, to know that I had it.”
-
-“Will you try?”
-
-“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
-indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”
-
-“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
-
-They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
-afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
-
-When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
-Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
-this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
-problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
-bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
-him as he showed himself.
-
-He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
-wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
-her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
-marked.
-
-“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
-
-“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
-and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
-to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”
-
-“What is it, my Lucie?”
-
-“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
-ask it?”
-
-“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
-
-What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
-cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
-
-“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
-respect than you expressed for him to-night.”
-
-“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
-
-“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”
-
-“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”
-
-“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
-lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
-he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
-wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”
-
-“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
-astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
-of him.”
-
-“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
-scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
-now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
-even magnanimous things.”
-
-She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
-that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
-
-“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
-head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
-we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”
-
-The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
-Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”
-
-He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
-her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
-could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
-of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
-that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
-have parted from his lips for the first time--
-
-“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI. Echoing Footsteps
-
-
-A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
-the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
-her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
-companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
-the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
-years.
-
-At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
-when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
-dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
-afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
-Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
-doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
-her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
-footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
-be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
-eyes, and broke like waves.
-
-That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
-advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
-her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
-mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
-the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
-children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
-her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
-joy to her.
-
-Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
-weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
-their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
-echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
-step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
-Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
-unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
-plane-tree in the garden!
-
-Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
-harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
-pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
-smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
-leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
-tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
-departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
-forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
-
-Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
-echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
-of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
-mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
-murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
-the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
-dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
-the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
-
-The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
-half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
-uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
-done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
-regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
-all true echoes for ages and ages.
-
-No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
-blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
-but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
-delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
-such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
-was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
-and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
-him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”
-
-Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
-forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
-his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
-in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
-life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
-stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
-it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
-state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
-rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
-property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
-but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
-
-These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
-offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
-sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
-Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
-bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
-rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
-Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
-training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
-pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
-declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
-Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
-diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
-to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
-parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
-latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
-it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
-originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
-off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
-
-These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
-amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
-daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
-child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
-and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
-Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
-with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
-waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
-in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
-more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
-many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
-to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
-the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
-as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
-have too much to do?”
-
-But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
-in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
-little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
-as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
-
-On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
-Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
-her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
-all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
-lightning from the same place.
-
-“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
-I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
-business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
-to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
-run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
-to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
-among some of them for sending it to England.”
-
-“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--
-
-“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
-there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
-getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
-without due occasion.”
-
-“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”
-
-“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
-himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
-am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
-Manette?”
-
-“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
-
-“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
-which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
-reason. You are not going out, I hope?”
-
-“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
-Doctor.
-
-“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
-pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
-see.”
-
-“Of course, it has been kept for you.”
-
-“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”
-
-“And sleeping soundly.”
-
-“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
-otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
-all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
-come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
-the echoes about which you have your theory.”
-
-“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”
-
-“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
-are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”
-
-Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
-life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
-footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
-the dark London window.
-
-Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
-heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
-heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
-roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
-struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
-all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
-weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
-
-Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
-agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
-heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
-have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
-powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
-weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
-could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
-force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
-heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
-Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
-with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
-
-As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
-circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
-had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
-already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
-thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
-another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
-
-“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
-One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
-patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”
-
-“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
-knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
-in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
-and a cruel knife.
-
-“Where do you go, my wife?”
-
-“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
-of women, by-and-bye.”
-
-“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
-friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”
-
-With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
-into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
-depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
-beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
-began.
-
-Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
-towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
-the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
-a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
-wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
-
-Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
-cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
-all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
-Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
-the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
-wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
-
-“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
-the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
-cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
-revenge.
-
-Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
-drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
-displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
-weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
-at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
-execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
-furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
-single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
-towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
-by the service of Four fierce hours.
-
-A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
-perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
-the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
-wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
-walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
-
-So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
-draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
-struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
-outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
-made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
-Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
-inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
-exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
-furious dumb-show.
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-“The Records!”
-
-“The secret cells!”
-
-“The instruments of torture!”
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
-the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
-eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
-billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
-threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
-undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
-these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
-hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
-wall.
-
-“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
-there is no one there.”
-
-“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
-Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“The meaning, monsieur?”
-
-“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
-shall strike you dead?”
-
-“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
-
-“Monsieur, it is a cell.”
-
-“Show it me!”
-
-“Pass this way, then.”
-
-Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
-by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
-held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
-been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
-as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
-noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
-its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
-outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
-occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
-air like spray.
-
-Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
-hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
-and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
-waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
-linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
-there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
-but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
-tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
-and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
-to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
-come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
-
-The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
-the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
-in:
-
-“One hundred and five, North Tower!”
-
-There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
-with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
-stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
-across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
-on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
-the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
-
-“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
-Defarge to the turnkey.
-
-The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
-
-“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”
-
-“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
-
-“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
-with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
-wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
-a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
-me!”
-
-He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
-exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
-table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
-
-“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
-among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
- throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
-light higher, you!”
-
-With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
-peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
-and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
-and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
-in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
-into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
-cautious touch.
-
-“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”
-
-“Nothing.”
-
-“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
-them, you!”
-
-The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
-again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
-retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
-of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
-more.
-
-They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
-Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
-upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
-Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
-judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
-blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
-unavenged.
-
-In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
-encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
-decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
-woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
-“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
-remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
-the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
-close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
-be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
-long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
-when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
-upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.
-
-The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
-of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
-Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
-iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
-governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
-where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
-the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
-means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
-swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
-
-The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
-of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
-were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
-voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
-until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
-
-But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
-in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
-fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
-more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
-released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
-overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
-Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
-Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
-drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
-faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
-faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
-lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
-IT!”
-
-Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
-accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
-and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
-hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
-Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
-hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
-and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
-and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
-at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
-stained red.
-
-
-
-
-XXII. The Sea Still Rises
-
-
-Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
-his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
-the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
-Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
-Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
-Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
-themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
-portentously elastic swing with them.
-
-Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
-contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
-knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
-of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
-the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
-hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
-but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
-destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
-before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
-The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
-they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
-the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
-last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.
-
-Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
-to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
-sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
-grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
-already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
-
-“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”
-
-As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
-Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
-murmur came rushing along.
-
-“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”
-
-Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
-around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
- Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
-mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
-sprung to their feet.
-
-“Say then, my husband. What is it?”
-
-“News from the other world!”
-
-“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”
-
-“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
-that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”
-
-“Everybody!” from all throats.
-
-“The news is of him. He is among us!”
-
-“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”
-
-“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
-to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
-found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
-seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
-said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”
-
-Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
-never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
-could have heard the answering cry.
-
-A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
-steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
-was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
-
-“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”
-
-Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
-in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
-The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
-her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
-house, rousing the women.
-
-The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
-from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
-the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
-such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
-children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
-famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
-another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
-Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
-Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
-these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
-alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
-who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
-to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
-breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
-suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
-knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
-and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
-Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
-Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
-him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
-whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
-dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
-belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
-
-Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
-the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
-his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
-of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
-such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
-a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
-wailing children.
-
-No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
-this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
-open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
-and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
-from him in the Hall.
-
-“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
-with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
-Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
-under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
-
-The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
-her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
-others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
-clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
-and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
-expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
-a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
-wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
-to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
-telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
-
-At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
-protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
-too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
-stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
-him!
-
-It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
-had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
-wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
-her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
-had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
-perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
-out! Bring him to the lamp!”
-
-Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
-his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
-and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
-face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
-entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
-action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
-another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
-a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
-of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
-might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
-while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
-screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
-him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
-held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
-mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
-
-Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
-and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
-the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
-people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
-five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
-on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
-breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
-pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
-through the streets.
-
-Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
-wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
-long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
-they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
-embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
-again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
-frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
-slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
-common, afterwards supping at their doors.
-
-Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
-most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
-some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
-cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
-share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
-and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
-hoped.
-
-It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
-knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
-husky tones, while fastening the door:
-
-“At last it is come, my dear!”
-
-“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
-
-Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
-her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
-only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
-Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
-the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
-was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
-Antoine's bosom.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII. Fire Rises
-
-
-There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
-the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
-highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
-poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
-crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
-but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
-them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
-be what he was ordered.
-
-Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
-Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
-shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
-dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
-animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
-out.
-
-Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
-blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
-luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
-nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
-things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
-Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
-be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
-was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
-flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
-its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
-to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
-unaccountable.
-
-But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
-it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
-it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
-of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
-the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
-of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
-the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
-disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
-beautifying features of Monseigneur.
-
-For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
-dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
-to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
-thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
-he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
-and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
-foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
-a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
-without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
-aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
-mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
-highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
-with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
-
-Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
-as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
-could get from a shower of hail.
-
-The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
-and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
-in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
-intelligible:
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?”
-
-“All well, Jacques.”
-
-“Touch then!”
-
-They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
-
-“No dinner?”
-
-“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
-
-“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”
-
-He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
-steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
-it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
-thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
-
-“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
-time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
-
-“To-night?” said the mender of roads.
-
-“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
-
-“Where?”
-
-“Here.”
-
-He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
-one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
-of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
-
-“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
-
-“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
-here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”
-
-“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
-over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
-Well?”
-
-“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
-village.”
-
-“Good. When do you cease to work?”
-
-“At sunset.”
-
-“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
-resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
-wake me?”
-
-“Surely.”
-
-The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
-great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
-was fast asleep directly.
-
-As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
-away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
-by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
-now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
-heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
-his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
-The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
-red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
-beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
-and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
-of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
-footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
-with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
-leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
-sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
-secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
-with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
-Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
-drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
-this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
-looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
-obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
-
-The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
-brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
-of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
-them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
-the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
-to go down into the village, roused him.
-
-“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
-summit of the hill?”
-
-“About.”
-
-“About. Good!”
-
-The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
-according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
-squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
-appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
-When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
-as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
-curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
-together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
-looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
-chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
-alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
-chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
-the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
-to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
-
-The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
-solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
-the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
-flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
-swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
-the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
-stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
-had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
-heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
-branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
-lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
-was black again.
-
-But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
-visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
-Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
-picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
-and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
-Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
-stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
-
-A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
-there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
-spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
-space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
-Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
-impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
-mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
-with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
-sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.
-
-The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
-through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
-the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
-removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
-chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
-timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
-looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
-of lips, “It must burn.”
-
-As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
-village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
-fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
-lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
-every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
-occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
-Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
-that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
-authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
-and that post-horses would roast.
-
-The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
-raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
-infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
-and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
-torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
-two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
-again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
-and contending with the fire.
-
-The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
-scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
-figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
-lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
-dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
-heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
-splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
-birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
-trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
-roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
-destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
-abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.
-
-Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
-bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
-the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
-of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
-days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
-house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
-Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
-with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
-withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
-resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
-of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
-parapet, and crush a man or two below.
-
-Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
-distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
-combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
-ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
-which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
-A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
-the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
-Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
-rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
-and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
-while.
-
-Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
-other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
-the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
-had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
-less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
-functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
-in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
-North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
-The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
-no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
-successfully.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
-In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
-the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
-flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
-the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
-of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
-tissue of the life of her home.
-
-Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
-the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
-feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
-a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
-danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
-in.
-
-Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
-his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
-to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
-this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
-infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
-ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
-boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
-and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
-sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
-
-The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
-mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
-eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
-Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
-out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
-outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
-all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
-“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
-
-The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
-come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
-
-As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
-Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
-haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
-without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
-Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
-to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
-house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
-from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
-storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
-provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
-by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
-from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
-a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
-time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
-was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
-consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
-out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
-through Temple Bar to read.
-
-On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
-Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
-penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
-the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
-hour or so of the time of closing.
-
-“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
-Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”
-
-“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
-disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
-
-“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
-some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
-enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
-upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
-interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
-disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
-House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
-old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
-long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
-myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
-these years, who ought to be?”
-
-“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
-and like one thinking aloud.
-
-“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
-Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
-are a wise counsellor.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
-thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
-my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
-the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
-here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
-and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
-after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
-
-“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
-are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
-France at this time of day!”
-
-“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
-more to the purpose that you say you are.”
-
-“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
-glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
-conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
-of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
-Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
-of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
-might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
-afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
-with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
-getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
-precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
-I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
-bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
-the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
-
-“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
-the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
-Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
-impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
-to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
-whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
-every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
-the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
-as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
-
-“And do you really go to-night?”
-
-“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
-delay.”
-
-“And do you take no one with you?”
-
-“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
-to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
-bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
-Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
-of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
-master.”
-
-“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
-youthfulness.”
-
-“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
-commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
-live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
-
-This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
-Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
-would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
-much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
-was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
-terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
-the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
-omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
-millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
-should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
-years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
-vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
-restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
-and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
-without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
-such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
-in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
-already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
-
-Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
-way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
-to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
-them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
-accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
-of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
-with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
-going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
-word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
-
-The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
-before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
-whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
-that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
-name. The address, turned into English, ran:
-
-“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
-France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
-London, England.”
-
-On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
-express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
-be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
-between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
-suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
-
-“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
-I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
-gentleman is to be found.”
-
-The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
-was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
-held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
-person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
-it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
-and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
-English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
-
-“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
-polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
-knew him.”
-
-“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
-been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
-hay--“some years ago.”
-
-“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
-through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
-Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
-the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
-
-“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
-fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
-
-Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
-the shoulder, and said:
-
-“I know the fellow.”
-
-“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
-times.”
-
-“But I do ask why?”
-
-“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
-hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
-who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
-ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
-that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
-man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
-because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
-why.”
-
-Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
-said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”
-
-“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
-Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
-understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
-tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
-to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
-gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
-“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
-find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
-precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
-of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
-
-With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
-shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
-his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
-in the general departure from the Bank.
-
-“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
-deliver it?”
-
-“I do.”
-
-“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
-addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
-that it has been here some time?”
-
-“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
-
-“From here, at eight.”
-
-“I will come back, to see you off.”
-
-Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
-Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
-letter, and read it. These were its contents:
-
-
-“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
-
-“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
-
-“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
-village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
-brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
-great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
-ground.
-
-“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
-life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
-the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
-emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
-against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
-before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
-imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
-had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
-an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
-
-“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
-emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
-not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
-ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
-
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
-succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
-Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
-
-“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
-nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
-assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
-
-“Your afflicted,
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-
-The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
-by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
-only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
-reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
-considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
-
-He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
-the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
-resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
-conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
-he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
-his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
-mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
-systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
-do it, and that it had never been done.
-
-The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
-always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
-which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
-annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
-following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
-these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
-without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
-the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
-until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
-France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
-confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
-was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
-France that might impeach him for it.
-
-But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
-far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
-relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
-favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
-bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
-on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
-there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
-in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
-the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
-own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
-
-This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
-that he would go to Paris.
-
-Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
-him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
-to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
-him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
-attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
-worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
-could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
-trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
-and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
-him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
-brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
-(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
-which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
-coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
-letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
-justice, honour, and good name.
-
-His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
-
-Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
-struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
-with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
-it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
-gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
-it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
-sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
-saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
-Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
-
-As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
-neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
-Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
-reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
-should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
-the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
-situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
-to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
-discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
-in his course.
-
-He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
-return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
-in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
-nothing of his intention now.
-
-A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
-booted and equipped.
-
-“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
-would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
-perhaps you will take a verbal one?”
-
-“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”
-
-“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
-
-“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
-hand.
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
-
-“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
-
-“Any time mentioned?”
-
-“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
-
-“Any person mentioned?”
-
-“No.”
-
-He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
-and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
-misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
-Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
- Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
-rolled away.
-
-That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
-two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
-he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
-that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
-personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
-their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
-strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
-in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
-
-It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
-reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
-preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
-But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
-resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
-so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
-the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
-scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
-(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
-of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
-streets, with a heavier heart.
-
-The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
-and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
-two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
-midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
-his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
-floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
-
-
-The end of the second book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
-
-
-
-I. In Secret
-
-
-The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
-England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
-ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
-horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
-unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
-but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
-these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
-citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
-of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
-inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
-turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
-hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
-Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
-Death.
-
-A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
-Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
-was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
-at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
-Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
-the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
-the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
-watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
-or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
-felt his freedom more completely gone.
-
-This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
-times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
-riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
-by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
-days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
-a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
-
-Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
-prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
-guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
-to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
-a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
-had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
-
-Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
-red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
-
-“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
-under an escort.”
-
-“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
-dispense with the escort.”
-
-“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
-of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”
-
-“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
-are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”
-
-“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.
-
-“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
-not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”
-
-“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
-and dress yourself, emigrant.”
-
-Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
-patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
-a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
-started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.
-
-The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
-cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
-side of him.
-
-The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
-his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
-wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
-faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
-and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
-change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
-between them and the capital.
-
-They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
-lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
-that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
-shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
-being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
-as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
-his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
-that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
-he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
-of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
-confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
-
-But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
-when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
-himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
-gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
-out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”
-
-He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
-resuming it as his safest place, said:
-
-“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
-will?”
-
-“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
-furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
-aristocrat!”
-
-The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
-bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
-be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”
-
-“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
-as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.
-
-Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
-yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
-the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
-voice heard:
-
-“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
-traitor.”
-
-“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
-is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”
-
-At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
-another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
-horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
-and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
-struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
-more was done.
-
-“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
-postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
-
-“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”
-
-“When passed?”
-
-“On the fourteenth.”
-
-“The day I left England!”
-
-“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
-others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
-condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
-your life was not your own.”
-
-“But there are no such decrees yet?”
-
-“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
-may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”
-
-They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
-then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
-wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
-unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
-lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
-cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
-would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
-circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
-up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
-Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
-into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
-wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
-that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
-the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
-way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
-
-Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
-closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
-
-“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
-in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
-
-Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
-speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
-in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
-imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.
-
-“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
-whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
-
-The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
-eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
-disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
-
-He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
-into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
-gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
-Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
-patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
-into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
-traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
-people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
-to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
-forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
-filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
-their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
-ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
-about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
-and women.
-
-When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
-things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
-who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
-escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
-to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
-turned and rode away without entering the city.
-
-He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
-and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
-drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
-waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
-light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
-the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
-uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
-officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
-
-“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
-paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
-
-“This is the man.”
-
-“Your age, Evremonde?”
-
-“Thirty-seven.”
-
-“Married, Evremonde?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Where married?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
-Force.”
-
-“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
-
-The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
-
-“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
-said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
-
-“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
-to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
-demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
-my right?”
-
-“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
-wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
-sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”
-
-Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
-him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
-them.
-
-“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
-guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
-Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
-
-“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
-Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”
-
-“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”
-
-The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
-with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
-and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”
-
-“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
-truth?”
-
-“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
-looking straight before him.
-
-“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
-sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
-little help?”
-
-“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
-
-“Will you answer me a single question?”
-
-“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”
-
-“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
-communication with the world outside?”
-
-“You will see.”
-
-“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
-presenting my case?”
-
-“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
-in worse prisons, before now.”
-
-“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”
-
-Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
-and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
-there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
-He, therefore, made haste to say:
-
-“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
-than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
-Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
-the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
-prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”
-
-“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
-my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
-I will do nothing for you.”
-
-Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
-was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
-how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
-streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
-their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
-otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
-more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
-going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
-passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
-audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
-family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
-it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
-foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
-Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
-watchfulness had completely isolated him.
-
-That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
-developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
-perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
-yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
-might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
-of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
-the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
-was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
-hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
-rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
-garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
-been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
-called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
-of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
-probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
-they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
-
-Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
-from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
-certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
-his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
-arrived at the prison of La Force.
-
-A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
-presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”
-
-“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
-bloated face.
-
-Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
-with his two fellow-patriots.
-
-“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
-“How many more!”
-
-The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
-replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
-responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
-the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
-conclusion.
-
-The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
-horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
-flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
-are ill cared for!
-
-“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
-if I was not already full to bursting!”
-
-He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
-awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
-fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
-either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
-subordinates.
-
-“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
-emigrant.”
-
-Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
-corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
-until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
-prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
-and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
-most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
-room.
-
-In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
-disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
-unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
-receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
-all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
-
-So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
-gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
-misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
-in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
-of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
-frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
-waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
-that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
-
-It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
-gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
-in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
-coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
-there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
-mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
-likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
-utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
-of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
-
-“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
-gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
-honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
-on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
-happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
-to ask your name and condition?”
-
-Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
-words as suitable as he could find.
-
-“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
-eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”
-
-“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
-so.”
-
-“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
-members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
-but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
-the society--in secret.”
-
-There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
-to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
-which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
-him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
-render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
-the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
-
-The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
-ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
-them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
-solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
-
-“Yours,” said the gaoler.
-
-“Why am I confined alone?”
-
-“How do I know!”
-
-“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”
-
-“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
-present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”
-
-There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
-the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
-walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
-the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
-was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
-a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
-gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
-dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
-with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
-is the first condition of the body after death.”
-
-“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
-paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
-counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
-drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
-shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
-paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
-“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
-them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
-embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
-hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
-through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
-made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
-a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
-his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
-and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
-still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
-knew, in the swell that rose above them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Grindstone
-
-
-Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
-in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
-the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
-a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
-troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
-mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
-metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
-of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
-besides the cook in question.
-
-Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
-sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
-willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
-indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
-house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
-things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
-precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
-of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
-Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
-drinking brandy in its state apartments.
-
-A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
-would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
-For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
-said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
-over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
-Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
-linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
-night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
-Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
-the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
-also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
-provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
-exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
-taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
-
-What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
-lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
-Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
-and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
-Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
-the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
-a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
-prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
-deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
-room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.
-
-He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
-he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
-derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
-building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
-that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
-his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
-was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
-of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
-great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
-open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
-to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
-or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
-objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
-opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
-he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.
-
-From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
-the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
-in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
-nature were going up to Heaven.
-
-“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
-dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
-who are in danger!”
-
-Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
-“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
-irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
-clash again, and all was quiet.
-
-The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
-uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
-awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
-go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
-opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
-amazement.
-
-Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
-that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
-seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
-force and power to it in this one passage of her life.
-
-“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
-matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
-What is it?”
-
-With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
-out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”
-
-“Your husband, Lucie?”
-
-“Charles.”
-
-“What of Charles?”
-
-“Here.
-
-“Here, in Paris?”
-
-“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
-collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
-us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”
-
-The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
-bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
-came pouring into the courtyard.
-
-“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
-don't touch the blind!”
-
-The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
-said, with a cool, bold smile:
-
-“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
-a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
-France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
-touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
-My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
-barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
-knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
-told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
-dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
-terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
-having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
-this fatal place. What prison is he in?”
-
-“La Force!”
-
-“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
-your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
-do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
-I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
-you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
-to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
-instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
-room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
-two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
-delay.”
-
-“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
-nothing else than this. I know you are true.”
-
-The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
-key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
-partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
-looked out with him into the courtyard.
-
-Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
-enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
-people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
-had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
-there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
-
-But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
-
-The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
-men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
-the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
-the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
-False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
-hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
-howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
-sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
-forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
-held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
-blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
-struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
-fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
-the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
-sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
-over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
-upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
-and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
-and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
-sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
-the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
-of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
-as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
-of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
-their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
-given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
-
-All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
-any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
-were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
-explanation in his friend's ashy face.
-
-“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
-the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
-say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
-have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
-may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”
-
-Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
-and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
-
-His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
-confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
-carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
-For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
-the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
-surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
-linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
-cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
-kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
-the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.
-
-He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
-and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
-assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
-her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
-surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
-watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
-
-Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
-clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
-bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
-charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
-the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
-
-Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
-irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
-“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
-sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
-and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”
-
-Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
-Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
-from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
-besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
-to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
-the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
-Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
-the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
-climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
-dainty cushions.
-
-The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
-and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
-alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
-never given, and would never take away.
-
-
-
-
-III. The Shadow
-
-
-One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
-Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
-imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
-the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
-for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
-he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
-man of business.
-
-At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
-the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
-the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
-same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
-most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
-its dangerous workings.
-
-Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
-tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
-that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
-Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
-this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
-he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
-went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
-in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
-of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
-
-To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
-giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
-He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
-considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
-A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
-and heavily the day lagged on with him.
-
-It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
-was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
-do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
-man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
-addressed him by his name.
-
-“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”
-
-He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
-to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
-emphasis, the words:
-
-“Do you know me?”
-
-“I have seen you somewhere.”
-
-“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”
-
-Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
-Manette?”
-
-“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”
-
-“And what says he? What does he send me?”
-
-Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
-words in the Doctor's writing:
-
- “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
- I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
- from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.”
-
-It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
-
-“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
-this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”
-
-“Yes,” returned Defarge.
-
-Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
-way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
-courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
-
-“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
-the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
-
-“It is she,” observed her husband.
-
-“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
-they moved.
-
-“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
-It is for their safety.”
-
-Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
-at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
-The Vengeance.
-
-They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
-ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
-and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
-tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
-delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
-the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
-
- “DEAREST,--Take courage. I am well, and your father has
- influence around me. You cannot answer this.
- Kiss our child for me.”
-
-That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
-it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
-hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
-action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
-to its knitting again.
-
-There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
-the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
-neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
-eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
-
-“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
-risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
-trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
-to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
-may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
-reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
-upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”
-
-Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
-gruff sound of acquiescence.
-
-“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
-propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
-good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
-French.”
-
-The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
-match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
-appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
-whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
-_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
-Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
-
-“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
-first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
-were the finger of Fate.
-
-“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
-daughter, and only child.”
-
-The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
-threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
-kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
-shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
-threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.
-
-“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
-may go.”
-
-But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
-presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
-she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:
-
-“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
-help me to see him if you can?”
-
-“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
-down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
-who is my business here.”
-
-“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
-will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
-afraid of you than of these others.”
-
-Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
-Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
-collected his face into a sterner expression.
-
-“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
-Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
-influence?”
-
-“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
-breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
-much influence around him.”
-
-“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”
-
-“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
-have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
-my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
-of me. As a wife and mother!”
-
-Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
-turning to her friend The Vengeance:
-
-“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
-as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
-known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
-often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
-themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
-sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”
-
-“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.
-
-“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
-again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
-and mother would be much to us now?”
-
-She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
-went last, and closed the door.
-
-“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
-courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
-late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”
-
-“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
-shadow on me and on all my hopes.”
-
-“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
-little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”
-
-But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
-for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Calm in Storm
-
-
-Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
-absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
-kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
-not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
-know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
-ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
-darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
-tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
-the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
-some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
-which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
-scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
-found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
-brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
-to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
-to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
-had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
-years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
-body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
-man was Defarge.
-
-That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
-that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
-to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
-dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
-and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
-a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
-to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
-examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
-the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
-to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
-the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
-the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
-inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
-was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
-Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
-assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
-delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
-often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
-had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
-
-The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
-intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
-saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
-those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
-been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
-thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
-the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
-in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
-of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
-awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
-with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
-carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
-anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
-with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
-
-As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
-his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
-such dread experiences would revive the old danger.
-
-But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
-at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
-felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
-he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
-could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
-“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
-As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
-helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
-of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
-the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
-of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
-clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
-had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
-
-Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
-have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
-in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
-of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
-personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
-of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
-that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
-general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
-messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
-sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
-not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
-plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
-known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.
-
-This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
-sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
-Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
-but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
-time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
-and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
-Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
-that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
-ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
-that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
-trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
-and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
-affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
-rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
-curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
-natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
-couldn't be in better hands.”
-
-But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
-Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
-the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
-era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
-against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
-great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
-against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
-of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
-had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
-alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
-the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
-and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
-fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
-What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
-One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
-and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!
-
-There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
-measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
-time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
-count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
-of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
-unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
-head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
-head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
-widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
-
-And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
-all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
-revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
-revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
-which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
-any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
-with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
-these things became the established order and nature of appointed
-things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
-Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
-the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
-sharp female called La Guillotine.
-
-It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
-it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
-peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
-shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
-and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
-human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
-from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
-believed in where the Cross was denied.
-
-It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
-were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
-Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
-the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
-good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
-dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
-The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
-functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
-namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
-day.
-
-Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
-with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
-end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
-current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
-away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
-months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
-wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
-that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
-violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
-under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
-terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
-that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
-in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
-victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
-appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
-other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
-he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
-a Spirit moving among mortals.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wood-Sawyer
-
-
-One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
-sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
-husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
-tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
-women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
-old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
-daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
-and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
-Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
-bestow, O Guillotine!
-
-If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
-had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
-despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
-the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
-the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
-truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
-will always be.
-
-As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
-had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
-household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
-its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
-as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
-slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
-that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
-return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
-solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
-unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
-outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
-
-She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
-mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
-attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
-and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
-thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
-night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
-repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
-was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
-without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”
-
-They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
-father said to her, on coming home one evening:
-
-“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
-sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
-it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
-in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
-show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
-if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”
-
-“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”
-
-From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
-clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
-When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
-went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
-single day.
-
-It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
-of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
-end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
-her.
-
-“Good day, citizeness.”
-
-“Good day, citizen.”
-
-This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
-established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
-but, was now law for everybody.
-
-“Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“You see me, citizen!”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
-had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
-at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
-bars, peeped through them jocosely.
-
-“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.
-
-Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
-appeared.
-
-“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
-
-“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
-
-“Yes, dearest.”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
-call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
-comes!”
-
-The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
-
-“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
-Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
-Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
-family!”
-
-Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
-impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
-his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
-first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
-
-He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
-him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
-up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
-with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
-not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
-briskly fall to his sawing again.
-
-In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
-spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
-in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
-this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
-Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
-five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
-for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
-see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
-waited out the day, seven days a week.
-
-These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
-father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
-afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
-rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
-decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
-also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
-(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
-
-The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
-surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
-somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
-with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
-and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
-saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
-female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
-was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
-
-But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
-and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
-afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
-prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
-The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
-they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
-than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
-keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
-Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
-together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
-mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
-filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
-apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
-advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
-another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
-in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
-linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
-and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
-all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
-reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
-again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
-of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
-up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
-as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
-innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
-a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
-heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
-warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
-bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
-delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
-the disjointed time.
-
-This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
-bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
-fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
-
-“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
-had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
-
-“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
-frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”
-
-“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
-husband, and the mercies of these people--”
-
-“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
-the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
-kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
-
-“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
-
-“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
-
-“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
-“no.”
-
-A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
- from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
-Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
-
-“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
-and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
-“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-“For to-morrow!”
-
-“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
-to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
-before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
-that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
-Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”
-
-She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
-
-“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
-be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
-protection. I must see Lorry.”
-
-He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
-both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
-away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
-
-“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
-
-The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
-and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
-and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
-better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
-hold his peace.
-
-A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
-the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
-Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
-deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
-National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
-Fraternity, or Death!
-
-Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
-chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
-agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
-he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
-turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
-he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
-
-
-
-
-VI. Triumph
-
-
-The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
-Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
-read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
-standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
-inside there!”
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
-
-So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
-
-When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
-for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
-Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
-hundreds pass away so.
-
-His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
-to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
-list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
-names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
-summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
-guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
-where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
-arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
-creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
-scaffold.
-
-There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
-soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
-were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
-concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
-there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
-refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
-common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
-who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
-insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
-time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
-or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
-brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
-boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
-seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
-disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
-like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
-them.
-
-The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
-vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
-put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
-were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.
-
-His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
-and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
-at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
-usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
-honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
-without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
-spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
-anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
-the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
-knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
-knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
-her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
-he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
-remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
-his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
-in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
-himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
-be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
-the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
-in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
-Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
-wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
-Carmagnole.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
-as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
-which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
-decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
-the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
-
-“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”
-
-The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
-prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
-England?
-
-Undoubtedly it was.
-
-Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
-
-Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
-
-Why not? the President desired to know.
-
-Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
-to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
-his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
-acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
-England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
-
-What proof had he of this?
-
-He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
-Alexandre Manette.
-
-But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
-
-True, but not an English woman.
-
-A citizeness of France?
-
-Yes. By birth.
-
-Her name and family?
-
-“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
-sits there.”
-
-This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
-of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
-the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
-countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
-if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
-
-On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
-according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
-counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
-inch of his road.
-
-The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
-sooner?
-
-He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
-of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
-he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
-He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
-a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
-absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
-testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
-in the eyes of the Republic?
-
-The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
-bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
- until they left off, of their own will.
-
-The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
-that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
-to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
-but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
-the President.
-
-The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
-it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
-and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
-Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
-pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
-enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
-overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
-of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
-had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
-declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
-answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
-called Darnay.
-
-Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
-and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
-proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
-release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
-England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
-their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
-government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
-the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
-circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
-straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
-populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
-Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
-had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
-account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
-they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
-receive them.
-
-At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
-set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
-favour, and the President declared him free.
-
-Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
-sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
-generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
-their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
-these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
-to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
-was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
-at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
-prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
-his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
-exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
-people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
-the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
-streets.
-
-His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
-rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
-together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
-assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
-itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
-him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
-hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
-of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
-Republic!”
-
-The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
-for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
-crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
-Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
-concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
-turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
-which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
-shore.
-
-They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
-taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
-Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
-had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
-even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
-on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
-and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
-he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
-was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
-
-In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
-him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
-prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
-they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
-him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
-had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
-feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
-
-As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
-face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
-together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
-rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
-Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
-crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
-overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
-and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
-them away.
-
-After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
-before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
-breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
-after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
-his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
-lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
-rooms.
-
-“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
-
-“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
-prayed to Him.”
-
-They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
-his arms, he said to her:
-
-“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
-could have done what he has done for me.”
-
-She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
-head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
-had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
-strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
-tremble so. I have saved him.”
-
-
-
-
-VII. A Knock at the Door
-
-
-“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
-often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
-vague but heavy fear was upon her.
-
-All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
-revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
-vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
-many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
-her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
-heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
-The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
-the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
-them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
-his real presence and trembled more.
-
-Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
-woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
-no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
-he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
-them all lean upon him.
-
-Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
-the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
-because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
-had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
-the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
-partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
-citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
-occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
-Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
-night.
-
-It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
-Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
-house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
-of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
-Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
-below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
-himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
-employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
-Darnay.
-
-In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
-harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
-in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
-were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
-shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
-possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
-
-For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
-office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
-basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
-lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
-such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
-association with a French family, might have known as much of their
-language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
-direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
-pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
-was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
-introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
-the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
-of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
-made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
-one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
-
-“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
-“if you are ready, I am.”
-
-Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
-all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
-
-“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
-have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
-these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
-
-“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
- retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”
-
-“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
-Nick's.”
-
-“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
-meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
-and Mischief.”
-
-“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.
-
-“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
-among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
-smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
-streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
-Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
-pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
-May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”
-
-“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.
-
-“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
-that,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
-
-“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
-short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
-Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
-as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
-tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
-after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
-
-“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
-had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
-“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
-way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
-with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
-prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
-
-“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
-
-“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
-glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
-must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
-fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
-you move, Ladybird!”
-
-They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
-child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
-Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
-a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
-sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
-in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
-a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
-a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
-quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
-
-“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
-
-“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
-on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
-least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”
-
-“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
-and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
-
-“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
-
-As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
-
-“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
-
-“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
-shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
-to the door.”
-
-He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
-and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
-men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
-
-“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
-
-“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
-
-“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
-Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”
-
-The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
-to him.
-
-“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”
-
-“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
-know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
-stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
-moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
-the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
-woollen shirt, said:
-
-“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
-
-“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
-
-“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
-
-He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
-after a pause:
-
-“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
-the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
-had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
-
-The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
-
-“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
-
-“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
-more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
-a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
-The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”
-
-“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”
-
-“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
-Antoine here.”
-
-The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
-feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
-
-“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
-the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”
-
-“What other?”
-
-“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
-answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
-
-
-
-
-VIII. A Hand at Cards
-
-
-Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
-way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
-Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
-she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
-both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
-passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
-turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
-was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
-lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
-stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
-Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
-undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
-grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
-
-Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
-for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
-After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
-once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
-took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
-description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
-not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
-opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
-attended by her cavalier.
-
-Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
-playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
-bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
-the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
-resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
-popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
-like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
-the counter, and showed what they wanted.
-
-As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
-corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
-sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
-her hands.
-
-In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
-assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
-likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
-saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
-the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
-evidently English.
-
-What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
-voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
-Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
-ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
-not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
-Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
-account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.
-
-“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
-speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
-English.
-
-“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
-“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
-do I find you here!”
-
-“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
-man, in a furtive, frightened way.
-
-“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
-been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
-
-“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
-want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”
-
-Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
-affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”
-
-“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”
-
-Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
-word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
-through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
-so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
-of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
-language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
-pursuits.
-
-“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
-want?”
-
-“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
-from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
-affection.”
-
-“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
-lips with his own. “Now are you content?”
-
-Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
-
-“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
-surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
-you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
-do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
-am an official.”
-
-“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
-tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
-greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
-such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
-his--”
-
-“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
-the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
-as I am getting on!”
-
-“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
-rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
-loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
-and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
-detain you no longer.”
-
-Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
-culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
-ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
-her money and left her!
-
-He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
-condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
-merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
-all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
-hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
-question:
-
-“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
-or Solomon John?”
-
-The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
-previously uttered a word.
-
-“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
-was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
-calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
-you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
-name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
-was, over the water.”
-
-“No?”
-
-“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
-at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
-yourself, was you called at that time?”
-
-“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
-
-“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
-
-The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
-him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
-elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
-
-“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
-surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
-elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
-myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
-better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
-was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”
-
-Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
-who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
-
-“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
-of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
-an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
-faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
-a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
-the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
-direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
-sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
-conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
-nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
-to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“What purpose?” the spy asked.
-
-“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
-street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
-company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”
-
-“Under a threat?”
-
-“Oh! Did I say that?”
-
-“Then, why should I go there?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”
-
-“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
-
-“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”
-
-Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
-quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
-and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
-made the most of it.
-
-“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
-sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
-
-“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
-But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
-pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
-satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”
-
-“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”
-
-“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
-own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
-at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
-knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
-ready? Come then!”
-
-Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
-remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
-in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
-purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
-contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
-too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
-her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
-heed what she observed.
-
-They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
-Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
-Pross, walked at his side.
-
-Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
-little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
-picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
-into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
-ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
-which he saw a stranger.
-
-“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
-with the name--and with the face.”
-
-“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
-coolly. “Pray sit down.”
-
-As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
-by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
-immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
-look of abhorrence.
-
-“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
-brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
-relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”
-
-Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
-tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
-to return to him!”
-
-“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Just now, if at all.”
-
-“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
-have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
-over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
-messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
-earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
-of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
-might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
-silently attentive.
-
-“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
-Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
-would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”
-
-“Yes; I believe so.”
-
-“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
-to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
-power to prevent this arrest.”
-
-“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
-identified he is with his son-in-law.”
-
-“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
-chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.
-
-“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
-are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
-will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
-carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
-stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
-in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
-Barsad.”
-
-“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
-
-“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
-brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
-
-It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
-glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
-
-“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
-over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
-committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
-so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
-is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
-Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
-That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
-French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
-English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
-card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
-Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
-spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
-the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
-difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
-hand, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
-
-“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
-Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
-hurry.”
-
-He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
-drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
-into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
-poured out and drank another glassful.
-
-“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
-
-It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
-in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
-employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
-there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
-vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
-date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
-France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
-there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
-knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
-Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
-such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
-release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
-familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
-Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
-with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
-talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
-He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
-again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
-guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
-he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
-he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
-his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
-terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
-grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
-that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
-proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
-his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
-terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
-the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
-
-“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
-composure. “Do you play?”
-
-“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
-Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
-put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
-under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
-of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
-considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
-somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
-himself as to make himself one?”
-
-“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
-and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
-
-“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
-hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”
-
-“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
-relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“You think not, sir?”
-
-“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
-
-The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
-ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
-received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
-mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
-failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
-of contemplating cards:
-
-“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
-have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
-fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
-who was he?”
-
-“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
-
-“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
-at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”
-
-“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
-
-“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
-way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
-the face.”
-
-“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.
-
-“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
-glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
-French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”
-
-“Provincial,” said the spy.
-
-“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
-light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
-had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”
-
-“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
-aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
-me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
-distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
-attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
-of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
-multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
-to lay him in his coffin.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
-goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
-to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
-risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
-
-“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
-how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
-lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
-carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
-it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
-it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
-Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
-violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
-crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
-
-Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
-the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
-
-“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
-iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Who took him out of it?”
-
-Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”
-
-“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
-I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
-
-The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
-unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.
-
-“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
-that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
-take in. Me and two more knows it.”
-
-“How do you know it?”
-
-“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
-old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
-I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
-
-Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
-this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
-explain himself.
-
-“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
-ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
-wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
-in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
-throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
-quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”
-
-“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
-Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
-you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
-aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
-the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
-A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
-card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”
-
-“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
-with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
-of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
-he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
-man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
-
-“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
-Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
-that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
-be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
-liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
-guinea.”
-
-The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
-with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
-can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
-Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
-office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
-life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
-I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
-here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
-way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
-me?”
-
-“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”
-
-“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
- said the spy, firmly.
-
-“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
-Conciergerie?”
-
-“I am sometimes.”
-
-“You can be when you choose?”
-
-“I can pass in and out when I choose.”
-
-Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
-upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
-said, rising:
-
-“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
-the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
-into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Game Made
-
-
-While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
-dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
-at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
-manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
-leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
-and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
-questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
-his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
-hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
-infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
-of him.
-
-“What have you been, besides a messenger?”
-
-After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
-Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
-character.”
-
-“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
-at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
-as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
-description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
-get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
-Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
-
-“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
-yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
-would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
-is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
-it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
-to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
-up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
-fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
-yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
-their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
-out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
-Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
-goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
-in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
-a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
-ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
-it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
-and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
-undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
-with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
-much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
-prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
-all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
-once in--even if it wos so.”
-
-“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
-the sight of you.”
-
-“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
-“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”
-
-“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
-further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
-would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
-that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
-be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
-your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
-wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
-you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
-his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
-let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
-for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
-a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
-That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
-arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
-discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
-see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
-without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
-to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
-things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
-fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
-cause when I might have kep' it back.”
-
-“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
-that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
-action--not in words. I want no more words.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
-returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
-arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
-
-He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
-were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
-
-“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
-to him, once.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
-
-“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
-to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
-worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
-weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”
-
-“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
-Tribunal, will not save him.”
-
-“I never said it would.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
-darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
-weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
-and his tears fell.
-
-“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
-voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
-father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
-sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
-however.”
-
-Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
-was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
-that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
-unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
-
-“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
-interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
-him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
-to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
-see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
-evidently understood it.
-
-“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
-only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
-I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
-little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
-You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”
-
-“I am going now, directly.”
-
-“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
-on you. How does she look?”
-
-“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
-
-“Ah!”
-
-It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
-attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
-fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
-passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
-wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
-flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
-and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
-light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
-all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
-sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
-his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
-broken under the weight of his foot.
-
-“I forgot it,” he said.
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
-wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
-the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
-reminded of that expression.
-
-“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
-to him.
-
-“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
-unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
-have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
-my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”
-
-They were both silent.
-
-“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.
-
-“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”
-
-“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
-trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
-
-“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
-may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”
-
-“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
-you when you leave it empty!”
-
-“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
-is nobody to weep for me.”
-
-“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”
-
-“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”
-
-“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”
-
-“Surely, surely.”
-
-“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
-'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
-respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
-regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
-your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
-not?”
-
-“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”
-
-Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
-few moments, said:
-
-“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
-days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
-
-Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
-
-“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
-closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
-nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
-preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
-that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
-and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
-so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
-
-“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
-you are the better for it?”
-
-“I hope so.”
-
-Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
-his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
-are young.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
-age. Enough of me.”
-
-“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”
-
-“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
-habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
-uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”
-
-“Yes, unhappily.”
-
-“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
-place for me. Take my arm, sir.”
-
-Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
-few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
-there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
-again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
-the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
-“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
-her steps.”
-
-It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
-where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
-closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
-
-“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
-man eyed him inquisitively.
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“How goes the Republic?”
-
-“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
-to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
-exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
-
-“Do you often go to see him--”
-
-“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
-citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
-than two pipes. Word of honour!”
-
-As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
-how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
-to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
-
-“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
-English dress?”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
-
-“You speak like a Frenchman.”
-
-“I am an old student here.”
-
-“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
-him. “And take a pipe with you!”
-
-Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
-the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
-of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
-the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
-for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
-terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
-his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
-thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
-
-Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
-counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
-whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”
-
-Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
-
-“For you, citizen?”
-
-“For me.”
-
-“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
-consequences of mixing them?”
-
-“Perfectly.”
-
-Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
-one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
-and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
-glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”
-
-It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
-aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
-negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
-had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
-his road and saw its end.
-
-Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
-youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
-mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
-read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
-streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
-on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
-he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
-whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
-rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
-and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
-and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
-brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
-might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
-went on.
-
-With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
-going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
-surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
-were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
-of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
-profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
-the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
-along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
-material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
-the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
-interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
-short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
-the lighter streets.
-
-Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
-suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
-shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
-people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
-one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
-for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
-and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
-
-“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
-were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
-and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
-heard them always.
-
-The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
-water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
-picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
-of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
-sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
-and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
-Death's dominion.
-
-But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
-of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
-And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
-appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
-sparkled under it.
-
-The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
-friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
-houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
-bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
-longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
-stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”
-
-A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
-glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
-in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
-for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
-ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
-where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
-little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
-himself, went out to the place of trial.
-
-The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
-away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
-Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
-sitting beside her father.
-
-When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
-sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
-tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
-blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
-there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
-Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
-
-Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
-ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
-been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
-first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
-Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
-
-Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
-republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
-after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
-his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
-gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
-cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
-Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
-
-Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
-No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
-murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
-in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
-another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
-retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
-Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
-one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
-privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
-called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
-
-To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
-
-The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
-
-“Openly, President.”
-
-“By whom?”
-
-“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
-
-A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
-Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
-
-“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
-a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
-daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
-and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
-of my child!”
-
-“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
-the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
-to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
-Republic.”
-
-Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
-with warmth resumed.
-
-“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
-herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
-to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
-
-Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
-his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
-closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
-and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
-
-Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
-being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
-his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
-and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
-This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
-
-“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
-best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
-there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
-it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”
-
-It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
-thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
-Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
- wherein she was likewise much commended.
-
-“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
-citizen.”
-
-“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
-bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
-“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
-known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
-knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
-when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
-when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
-the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
-gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
-stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
-that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
-of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
-I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
-the President.”
-
-“Let it be read.”
-
-In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
-lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
-solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
-reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
-never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
-intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
-follows.
-
-
-
-
-X. The Substance of the Shadow
-
-
-“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
-afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
-cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
-it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
-in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
-place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
-and my sorrows are dust.
-
-“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
-difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
-with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
-has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
-noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
-solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
-mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
-truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
-be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
-
-“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
-twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
-part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
-at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
-School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
-fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
-might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
-voice called to the driver to stop.
-
-“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
-and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
-was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
-door and alight before I came up with it.
-
-“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
-conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
-I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
-younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
-and (as far as I could see) face too.
-
-“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
-physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
-has made a rising reputation in Paris?'
-
-“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
-graciously.'
-
-“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
-so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
-probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
-overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'
-
-“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
-were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
-They were armed. I was not.
-
-“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
-the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
-which I am summoned.'
-
-“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
-your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
-our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
-yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
-enter the carriage?'
-
-“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
-entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
-carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
-
-“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
-it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
-place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
-the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
-paper in its hiding-place.
-
- *****
-
-“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
-emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
-Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
-when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
-stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
-a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
-overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
-answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
-the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
-
-“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
-for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
-other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
-with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
-alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
-
-“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
-locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
-relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
-conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
-ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
-lying on a bed.
-
-“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
-past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
-her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
-all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
-scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
-and the letter E.
-
-“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
-for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
-edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
-in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
-her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
-corner caught my sight.
-
-“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
-and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
-wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
-words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
-twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
-to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
-would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
-would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
-order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
-pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
-
-“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'
-
-“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
-younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
-was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'
-
-“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
-
-“'A brother.'
-
-“'I do not address her brother?'
-
-“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'
-
-“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'
-
-“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'
-
-“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
-useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
-to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
-are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
-
-“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
-a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
-the table.
-
- *****
-
-“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
-lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
-poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
-
-“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.
-
-“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
-more.
-
-“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
-efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
-after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
-sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
-in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
-a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
-furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
-old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
-sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
-succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
-counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
-not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
-them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
-in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
-soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
-figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
-regular.
-
-“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
-the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
-before the elder said:
-
-“'There is another patient.'
-
-“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'
-
-“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
-
- *****
-
-“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
-was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
-to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
-there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
-the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
-pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
-and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
-this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
-captivity, as I saw them all that night.
-
-“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
-handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
-He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
-breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
-where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
-that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
-
-“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'
-
-“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
-
-“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
-The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
-before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
-without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
-brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
-ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
-as if he were a fellow-creature.
-
-“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.
-
-“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
-and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'
-
-“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
-answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
-have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
-have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
-vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
-the boy, or about his fate.
-
-“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
-slowly moved to me.
-
-“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
-proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
-we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'
-
-“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
-distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
-
-“I said, 'I have seen her.'
-
-“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
-Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
-have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
-so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
-tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
-The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
-
-“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
-to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
-
-“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
-are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
-work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
-to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
-for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
-plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
-ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
-people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
-and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
-dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
-most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
-race die out!'
-
-“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
-like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
-somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
-dying boy.
-
-“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
-poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
-him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
-been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
-her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
-us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
-hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
-then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
-willing?'
-
-“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
-looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
-opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
-Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
-trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
-
-“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
-harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
-drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
-grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
-may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
-night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
-not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
-could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
-bell, and died on her bosom.'
-
-“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
-tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
-he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
-wound.
-
-“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
-brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
-brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
-it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
-for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
-tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
-that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
-beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
-_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
-in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
-somewhere here?'
-
-“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
-him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
-over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
-
-“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
-dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
-at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
-make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
-that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
-at me with all his skill for his life.'
-
-“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
-a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
-another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
-
-“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
-
-“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
-referred to the brother.
-
-“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
-man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
-
-“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
-moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
-me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
-
-“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
-his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
-answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
-answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
-I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
-I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
-separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
-it.'
-
-“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
-forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
-finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
-down dead.
-
- *****
-
-“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
-in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
-for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
-grave.
-
-“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
-the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
-quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
-of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
-One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
-twelve. Hush!'
-
-“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
-come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
-falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
-by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
-
-“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
-fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
-compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
-her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
-a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
-had of her.
-
-“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
-elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
-
-“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
-
-“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
-at her with some curiosity.
-
-“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
-despair.'
-
-“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
-chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
-subdued voice,
-
-“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
-recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
-and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
-of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
-and not spoken of.'
-
-“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
-
-“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
-
-“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
-are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
-was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
-
-“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
-pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
-resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
-
- *****
-
-“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
-fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
-darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
-failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
-was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
-
-“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
-syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
-asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
-was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
-head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
-
-“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
-brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
-then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
-woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
-the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
-that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
-if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.
-
-“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
-brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
-peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
-of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
-to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
-brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
-for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
-me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
-in the mind of the elder, too.
-
-“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
-answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
-with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
-all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
-
-“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
-away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
-their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
-
-“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
-
-“'She is dead,' said I.
-
-“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
-
-“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
-gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
-the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
-nothing.
-
-“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
-
-“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
-them, and we parted without another word on either side.
-
- *****
-
-“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
-have written with this gaunt hand.
-
-“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
-little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
-considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
-to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
-summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
-circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
-of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
-heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
-profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
-in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
-I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
-compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
-
-“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
-night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
-It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
-completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
-
- *****
-
-“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
-so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
-dreadful.
-
-“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
-life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
-wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
-boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
-on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
-had seen that nobleman very lately.
-
-“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
-conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
-know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
-in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
-share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
-was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
-in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
-Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
-
-“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
-her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
-but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
-inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
-that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
-wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
-
- *****
-
-“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
-yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
-
-“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
-could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
-was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
-husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
-pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
-
-“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
-all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
-inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
-atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
-I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
-jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
-compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
-the sister can be discovered.'
-
-“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
-sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
-bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
-went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
-
-“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
-I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
-trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
-
-“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
-a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
-my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
-into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
-My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
-the gate, standing silent behind him.
-
-“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
-he had a coach in waiting.
-
-“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
-house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
-my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
-corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
-his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
-of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
-Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
-grave.
-
-“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
-brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
-my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
-dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
-now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
-they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
-last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
-night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
-when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
-and to earth.”
-
-A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
-sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
-blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
-and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
-
-Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
-how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
-Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
-time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
-anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
-The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
-sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
-
-And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
-well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
-of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
-the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
-self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
-said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
-physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
-rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
-a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
-orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
-human sympathy.
-
-“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
-smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”
-
-At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
-roar.
-
-Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
-of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
-Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
-
-
-
-
-XI. Dusk
-
-
-The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
-the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
-sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
-she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
-it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
-
-The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
-the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
-emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
-stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
-but love and consolation.
-
-“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
-you would have so much compassion for us!”
-
-There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
-taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
-show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
-him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
-passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
-leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
-
-“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
-shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
-
-They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
-
-“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
-for me. A parting blessing for our child.”
-
-“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
-you.”
-
-“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
-“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
-by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
-will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”
-
-Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
-of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
-
-“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
-to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
-you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
-know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
-her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
-duty. Heaven be with you!”
-
-Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
-and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
-
-“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
-together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
-discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
-near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
-nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
-bless you!”
-
-As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
-with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
-with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
-smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
-lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
-feet.
-
-Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
-Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
-with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
-Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
-flush of pride in it.
-
-“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”
-
-He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
-coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
-beside the driver.
-
-When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
-many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
-the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
-the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
-her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
-
-“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
-better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
-
-“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
-throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
-you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
-save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
-love her, bear to see her so?”
-
-He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
-put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
-
-“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
-
-It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
-with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
-him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
-handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
-
-When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
-and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
-
-“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
-be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
-you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
-
-“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
-strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
-answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
-
-“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
-and short, but try.”
-
-“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
-
-“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
-now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
-great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
-it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
-were not.”
-
-“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
-straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
-write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
-one will be accessible until dark.”
-
-“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
-forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
-speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
-these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”
-
-“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
-this.”
-
-“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
-go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
-our friend or from yourself?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“May you prosper!”
-
-Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
-shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
-
-“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
-
-“Nor have I.”
-
-“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
-him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
-to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
-court.”
-
-“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
-
-Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
-
-“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
-Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
-consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
-thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
-
-“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
-But he will perish; there is no real hope.”
-
-“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.
-
-And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-XII. Darkness
-
-
-Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
-Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
-do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
-these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
-precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
-Let me think it out!”
-
-Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
-turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
-in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
-confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
-should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
-towards Saint Antoine.
-
-Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
-the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
-well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
-its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
-at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
-first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
-had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
-dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
-done with it.
-
-It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
-into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
-stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
-the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
-his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.
-
-There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
-restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
-the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
-Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
-a regular member of the establishment.
-
-As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
-French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
-glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
-to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
-
-He repeated what he had already said.
-
-“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
-eyebrows.
-
-After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
-slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
-accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”
-
-Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
-took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
-meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”
-
-Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
-
-“How?”
-
-“Good evening.”
-
-“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
-drink to the Republic.”
-
-Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
- Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
-pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
- The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
-are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
-to-morrow!”
-
-Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
-forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
-their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
-of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
-disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
-their conversation.
-
-“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
-is great force in that. Why stop?”
-
-“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
-the question is still where?”
-
-“At extermination,” said madame.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
-approved.
-
-“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
-troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
-suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
-the paper was read.”
-
-“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
-“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
-face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”
-
-“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
-“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
-
-“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
-his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
-have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
-I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
-finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
-his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
-if the axe had dropped.
-
-“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.
-
-“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
-
-“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
-depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
-man even now.”
-
-“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
-would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”
-
-“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
-too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
-tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
-doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.
-
-“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
-this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
-night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
-by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge.
-
-“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
-burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
-those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
-that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge again.
-
-“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
-hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
-among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
-by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
-family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
-was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
-was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
-those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
-descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.
-
-“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
-tell me.”
-
-Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
-of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
-her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
-a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
-only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
-the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”
-
-Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
-paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
-a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
-took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
-The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
-be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
-deep.
-
-But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
-prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
-himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
-walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
-until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
-keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
-banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
-mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
-more than five hours gone: where could he be?
-
-Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
-he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
-should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
-In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
-
-He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
-did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
-brought none. Where could he be?
-
-They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
-weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
-the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
-lost.
-
-Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
-time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
-them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
-
-“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”
-
-His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
-straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
-
-“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
-can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
-finish those shoes.”
-
-They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
-
-“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
-work. Give me my work.”
-
-Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
-ground, like a distracted child.
-
-“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
-cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
-not done to-night?”
-
-Lost, utterly lost!
-
-It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
-that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
-soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
-have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
-embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
-time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
-the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
-
-Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
-of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
-daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
-too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
-one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
-
-“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
-to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
-me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
-exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”
-
-“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”
-
-The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
-rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
-they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
-night.
-
-Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
-feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
-carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
-took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
-at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
-exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”
-
-“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
-
-“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
-his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
-enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
-an Englishman?”
-
-Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
-
-“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
-remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
-Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
-and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
-frontier! You see?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
-yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
-up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
-within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
-good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
-think, will be.”
-
-“They are not in danger?”
-
-“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
-Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
-woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
-colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
-confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
-is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
-Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
-name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
-the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
-involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
-both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
-will save them all.”
-
-“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”
-
-“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
-on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
-until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
-more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
-mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
-father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
-inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
-strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”
-
-“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
-the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
-of this distress.”
-
-“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
-as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
-completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
-horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
-afternoon.”
-
-“It shall be done!”
-
-His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
-flame, and was as quick as youth.
-
-“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
-Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
-and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
-beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
-on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
-the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
-her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
-depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
-father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
-
-“I am sure of it.”
-
-“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
-the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
-The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
-
-“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”
-
-“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
-reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
-then for England!”
-
-“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
-hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
-and ardent man at my side.”
-
-“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
-influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
-another.”
-
-“Nothing, Carton.”
-
-“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
-any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
-inevitably be sacrificed.”
-
-“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”
-
-“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”
-
-Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
-put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
-helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
-as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
-where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
-to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
-courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
-the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
-it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
-there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
-her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
-Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. Fifty-two
-
-
-In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
-their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
-to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
-everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
-were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
-the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
-apart.
-
-Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
-whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
-poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
-in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
-and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
-intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
-without distinction.
-
-Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
-flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
-of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
-fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
-that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
-avail him nothing.
-
-Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
-before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
-was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
-and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
-when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
-this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
-a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
-resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
-child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
-selfish thing.
-
-But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
-was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
-road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
-him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
-enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
-by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
-thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
-
-Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
-travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
-of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
-prison lamps should be extinguished.
-
-He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
-of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
-and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
-responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
-already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
-he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
-her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
-had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
-for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
-become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
-to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
-that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
-preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
-he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
-mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
-discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
-besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
-her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
-of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
-reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
-sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
-blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
-dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
-father.
-
-To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
-father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
-he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
-despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
-tending.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
-That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
-attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
-full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
-
-He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
-he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
-
-But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
-forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
-nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
-heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
-he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
-suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
-was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
-sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
-flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
-
-Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
-were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
-meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
-thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
-
-He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
-high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
-stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
-red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
-or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
-directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
-times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
-fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
-to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
-few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
-the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
-
-The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
-numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
-ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
-contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
-him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
-repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
-He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
-himself and for them.
-
-Twelve gone for ever.
-
-He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
-be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
-and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
-before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
-interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
-
-Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
-different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
-he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
-measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
-recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
-turned to walk again.
-
-Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
-
-The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
-as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
-me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
-no time!”
-
-The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
-face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
-features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
-
-There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
-first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
-imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
-hand, and it was his real grasp.
-
-“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
-
-“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
-are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”
-
-“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
-here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
-wife, dear Darnay.”
-
-The prisoner wrung his hand.
-
-“I bring you a request from her.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
-in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
-remember.”
-
-The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
-
-“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
-no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
-wear, and draw on these of mine.”
-
-There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
-Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
-him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
-
-“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
-them. Quick!”
-
-“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
-will only die with me. It is madness.”
-
-“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
-to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
-that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
-it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
-this of mine!”
-
-With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
-that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
-The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
-
-“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
-can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
-not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
-
-“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
-refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
-steady enough to write?”
-
-“It was when you came in.”
-
-“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”
-
-Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
-Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
-
-“Write exactly as I speak.”
-
-“To whom do I address it?”
-
-“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.
-
-“Do I date it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
-his hand in his breast, looked down.
-
-“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
-between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
-You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”
-
-He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
-up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
-something.
-
-“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.
-
-“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”
-
-“No; I am not armed.”
-
-“What is it in your hand?”
-
-“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
-dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
-them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
-words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
-moved down close to the writer's face.
-
-The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
-him vacantly.
-
-“What vapour is that?” he asked.
-
-“Vapour?”
-
-“Something that crossed me?”
-
-“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
-and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
-
-As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
-prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
-with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
-hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
-
-“Hurry, hurry!”
-
-The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
-
-“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
-softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
-If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
-should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
-otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
-unintelligible signs.
-
-Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
-with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
-nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
-seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
-life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
-the ground.
-
-Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
-dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
-his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
-softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.
-
-“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
-insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
-great?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
-hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
-the whole of your bargain.”
-
-“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”
-
-“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
-made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”
-
-“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
-rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
-take me to the coach.”
-
-“You?” said the Spy nervously.
-
-“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
-you brought me in?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
-take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
-happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
-Quick! Call assistance!”
-
-“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
-last moment.
-
-“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
-solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
-moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
-him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
-yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
-last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
-
-The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
-forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
-
-“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
-afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
-Sainte Guillotine?”
-
-“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
-if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
-
-They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
-brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
-
-“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.
-
-“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
-you, and leave me.”
-
-“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”
-
-The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
-listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
-suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
-footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
-made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
-sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
-
-Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
-began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
-finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
-saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
-at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
-within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
-the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
-standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
-but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
-fixedly at the ground.
-
-As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
-were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
-as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
-discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
-woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
-no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
-the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
-
-“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
-poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”
-
-He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”
-
-“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
-likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
-like me?”
-
-The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
-started from his eyes.
-
-“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
-am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
-to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
-Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
-
-As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
-warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
-
-“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”
-
-“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
-
-“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
-hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
-more courage.”
-
-As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
-them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
-fingers, and touched his lips.
-
-“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
-
-“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
-
-“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
-
-“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
-
- *****
-
-The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
-same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
-it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
-
-“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
-
-The papers are handed out, and read.
-
-“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
-
-This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
-pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
-Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
-
-Greatly too much for him.
-
-“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
-
-This is she.
-
-“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”
-
-It is.
-
-“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
-This is she?”
-
-She and no other.
-
-“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
-something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
-English. Which is he?”
-
-He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”
-
-It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
-he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
-under the displeasure of the Republic.
-
-“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
-displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
-Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”
-
-“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”
-
-It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
-is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
-door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
-carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
-carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
-the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
-mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
-an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
-
-“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”
-
-“One can depart, citizen?”
-
-“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”
-
-“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”
-
-These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
-looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
-is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
-
-“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
- asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
-
-“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
-it would rouse suspicion.”
-
-“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
-
-“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”
-
-Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
-dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
-trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
-either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
-stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
-sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
-wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
-anything but stopping.
-
-Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
-farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
-avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
-by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
-no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
-the posting-house.
-
-Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
-the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
-of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
-existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
-plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
-their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
-All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
-far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
-
-At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
-behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
-on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
-animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
-haunches. We are pursued?
-
-“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”
-
-“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
-
-“How many did they say?”
-
-“I do not understand you.”
-
-“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”
-
-“Fifty-two.”
-
-“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
-forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
-handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”
-
-The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
-to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
-by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
-us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
-
-The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
-the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
-us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Knitting Done
-
-
-In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
-Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
-Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
-erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
-conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
-was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
-
-“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
-Republican? Eh?”
-
-“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
-notes, “in France.”
-
-“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
-a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
-fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
-well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
-his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”
-
-“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
-with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
-citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
-
-“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
-his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
-me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
-child must follow the husband and father.”
-
-“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
-eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
-them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
-
-Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
-
-“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
-of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
-there. It is a pretty sight!”
-
-“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
-“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
-last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
-but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
-and then they might escape.”
-
-“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
-have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”
-
-“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
-pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
-regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
-therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
-submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
-
-“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
-“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
-this very day?”
-
-“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
-two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
-without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”
-
-He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
-imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
-never seen.
-
-“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”
-
-“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
-eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
-
-“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
-fellow-Jurymen.”
-
-“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
-Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
-I spare him?”
-
-“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
-“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”
-
-“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
-cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
-trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
-bad witness.”
-
-The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
-protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
-witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
-celestial witness.
-
-“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
-him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
-to-day executed.--You?”
-
-The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
-the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
-of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
-Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
-smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
-barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
-suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
-him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
-for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
-
-“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
-over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
-will give information against these people at my Section.”
-
-The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
-citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
-her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
-hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
-
-Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
-the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
-
-“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
-be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
-justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
-I will go to her.”
-
-“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
-Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
-embraced her.
-
-“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
-lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
-me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
-greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
-
-“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
-alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”
-
-“I shall be there before the commencement.”
-
-“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
-The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
-street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
-
-Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
-might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
-mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
-Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
-of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
-
-There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
-disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
-than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
-strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
-determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
-to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
-instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
-heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
-with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
-opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
-pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
-her.
-
-It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
-his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
-his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
-insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
-her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
-hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
-been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
-she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
-been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
-softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
-sent her there.
-
-Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
-worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
-dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
-bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
-dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
-a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
-walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
-sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
-
-Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
-waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
-the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
-attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
-but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
-it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
-escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
-Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
-and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
-three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
-Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
-passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
-advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
-of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
-
-Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
-pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
-beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
-passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
-their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
-taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
-else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
-
-“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
-was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
-“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
-carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
-suspicion.”
-
-“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
-wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
-
-“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
-Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
-_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”
-
-“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
-hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
-mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
-two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
-crisis?”
-
-“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
-them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
-
-“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
-an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
-more will I do it, never no more!”
-
-“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
-never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
-necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
-
-“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
-poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
-Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
-
-“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
-striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
-is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
-superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”
-
-“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
-most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
-be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
-opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
-hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
-time.”
-
-“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
-Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
-
-“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
-additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
-out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
-earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
-flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
-risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
-conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
-
-And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
-nearer and nearer.
-
-“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
-upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
-understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
-you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
-earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
-Cruncher, let us think!”
-
-Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
-and nearer.
-
-“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
-horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
-that be best?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
-
-“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
-Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
-Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
-
-“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
-the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
-towers?”
-
-“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
-straight, and make that change.”
-
-“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
-“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”
-
-“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
-Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
-and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
-of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
-that may depend on both of us!”
-
-This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
-clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
-immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
-to follow as she had proposed.
-
-The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
-execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
-her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
-streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
-minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
-
-Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
-rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
-in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
-which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
-could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
-dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
-was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
-out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
-
-The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
-Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
-those feet had come to meet that water.
-
-Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
-where is she?”
-
-It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
-and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
-four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
-the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
-
-Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
-and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
-about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
-of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
-way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
-
-“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
-Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
-me. I am an Englishwoman.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
-Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
-hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
-woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
-Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
-that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
-
-“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
-her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
-knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
-wish to see her.”
-
-“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
-depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”
-
-Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
-both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
-the unintelligible words meant.
-
-“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
-moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
-Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”
-
-“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
-was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
-you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”
-
-Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
-detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
-at naught.
-
-“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
-answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
-to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
- This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
-
-“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
-understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
-except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
-part of it.”
-
-Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
-Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
-first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
-
-“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
-English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
-greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
-dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
-
-Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
-between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
-Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
-
-But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
-irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
-Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
-laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
-Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
-of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
-answer the Citizeness Defarge!”
-
-Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
-expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
-either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
-Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
-
-“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
-are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
-you! Let me look.”
-
-“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
-Madame Defarge understood the answer.
-
-“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
-brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.
-
-“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
-uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
-know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
-that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”
-
-“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
-I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
-Madame Defarge.
-
-“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
-not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
-while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
-my darling,” said Miss Pross.
-
-Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
-moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
-It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
-with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
-clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
-that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
-face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
-clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
-
-Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
-waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
-shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
-you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
-
-Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
-what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
-alone--blinded with smoke.
-
-All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
-stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
-whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
-
-In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
-body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
-fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
-what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
-go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
-get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
-out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
-away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
-and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
-
-By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
-gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
-was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
-like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
-gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
-dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
-hundred ways.
-
-In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
-at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
-she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
-it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
-discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
-charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
-escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
-
-“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
-question and by her aspect.
-
-“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”
-
-It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
-not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
-all events she'll see that.” And she did.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
-presently.
-
-Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
-
-“I don't hear it.”
-
-“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
-much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
-
-“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
-and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”
-
-“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
-more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
-Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”
-
-“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
-my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
-and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
-broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
-
-“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
-journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
-opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
-
-And indeed she never did.
-
-
-
-
-XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
-tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
-insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
-are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
-France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
-a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
-conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
-humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
-twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
-rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
-the same fruit according to its kind.
-
-Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
-they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
-the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
-toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
-house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
-No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
-of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
-into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
-the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
-form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
- Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
-
-As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
-a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
-are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
-So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
-in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
-hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
-the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
-then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
-curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
-tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
-
-Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
-things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
-a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
-drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
-heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
-they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
-and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
-he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
-drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
-number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
-
-There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
-and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
-question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
-always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
-horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
-their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
-at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
-mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
-no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
-girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
-against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
-shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
-touch his face, his arms being bound.
-
-On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
-the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
-He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
-sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
-
-“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
-
-“That. At the back there.”
-
-“With his hand in the girl's?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
-Down, Evremonde!”
-
-“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
-
-“And why not, citizen?”
-
-“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
-Let him be at peace.”
-
-But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
-Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
-Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
-
-The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
-populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
-end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
-close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
-to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
-public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
-fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
-
-“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
-Defarge!”
-
-“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
-
-“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”
-
-“Louder,” the woman recommends.
-
-Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
-thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
-it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
-lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
-deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
-enough to find her!
-
-“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
-here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
-she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
-her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”
-
-As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
-begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
-robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
-scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
-think and speak, count One.
-
-The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
-the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
-
-The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
-after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
-still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
-crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
-his face and thanks him.
-
-“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
-naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
-able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
-have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
-Heaven.”
-
-“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
-and mind no other object.”
-
-“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
-it go, if they are rapid.”
-
-“They will be rapid. Fear not!”
-
-The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
-if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
-heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
-and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
-together, and to rest in her bosom.
-
-“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
-am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”
-
-“Tell me what it is.”
-
-“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
-love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
-farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
-nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
-tell her! It is better as it is.”
-
-“Yes, yes: better as it is.”
-
-“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
-thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
-much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
-and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
-live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
-
-“What then, my gentle sister?”
-
-“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
-endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
-“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
-where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”
-
-“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”
-
-“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
-moment come?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
-The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
-a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
-him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
-
-“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me shall never die.”
-
-The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
-on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
-forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
-Twenty-Three.
-
- *****
-
-They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
-peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
-sublime and prophetic.
-
-One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
-at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
-write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
-utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
-
-“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
-long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
-the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
-out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
-rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
-their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
-of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
-birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
-
-“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
-prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
-Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
-aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
-healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
-friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
-tranquilly to his reward.
-
-“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
-their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
-for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
-course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
-that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
-than I was in the souls of both.
-
-“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
-winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
-winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
-light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
-fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
-with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
-look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
-tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
-
-“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
-far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/mix.txt b/DataStructureNotes/mix.txt
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: A Tale of Two Cities
- A Story of the French Revolution
-
-Author: Charles Dickens
-
-Release Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]
-Posting Date: November 28, 2009
-Last Updated: March 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Judith Boss
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-A TALE OF TWO CITIES
-
-A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
-
-By Charles Dickens
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
- Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
- Chapter I The Period
- Chapter II The Mail
- Chapter III The Night Shadows
- Chapter IV The Preparation
- Chapter V The Wine-shop
- Chapter VI The Shoemaker
-
-
- Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
- Chapter I Five Years Later
- Chapter II A Sight
- Chapter III A Disappointment
- Chapter IV Congratulatory
- Chapter V The Jackal
- Chapter VI Hundreds of People
- Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town
- Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country
- Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head
- Chapter X Two Promises
- Chapter XI A Companion Picture
- Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy
- Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy
- Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman
- Chapter XV Knitting
- Chapter XVI Still Knitting
- Chapter XVII One Night
- Chapter XVIII Nine Days
- Chapter XIX An Opinion
- Chapter XX A Plea
- Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps
- Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises
- Chapter XXIII Fire Rises
- Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
- Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
- Chapter I In Secret
- Chapter II The Grindstone
- Chapter III The Shadow
- Chapter IV Calm in Storm
- Chapter V The Wood-sawyer
- Chapter VI Triumph
- Chapter VII A Knock at the Door
- Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards
- Chapter IX The Game Made
- Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow
- Chapter XI Dusk
- Chapter XII Darkness
- Chapter XIII Fifty-two
- Chapter XIV The Knitting Done
- Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
-
-
-
-I. The Period
-
-
-It was the best of times,
-it was the worst of times,
-it was the age of wisdom,
-it was the age of foolishness,
-it was the epoch of belief,
-it was the epoch of incredulity,
-it was the season of Light,
-it was the season of Darkness,
-it was the spring of hope,
-it was the winter of despair,
-we had everything before us,
-we had nothing before us,
-we were all going direct to Heaven,
-we were all going direct the other way--
-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
-its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
-evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-
-There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
-throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
-a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
-than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
-that things in general were settled for ever.
-
-It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
-as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
-blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
-heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
-made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
-ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
-messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
-deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
-earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
-from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
-to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
-communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
-brood.
-
-France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
-sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
-hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
-Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
-achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
-torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
-kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
-which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
-yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
-Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
-already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
-boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
-it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
-of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
-sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
-rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
-the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
-the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
-unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
-with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
-that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
-
-In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
-justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
-highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
-families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
-their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
-in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
-challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
-“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
-mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
-then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
-failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
-that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
-and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
-illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
-gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
-fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
-thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
-Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
-for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
-musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
-much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
-and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
-up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
-Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
-hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
-Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
-and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
-sixpence.
-
-All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
-upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
-those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
-fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
-with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
-and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
-creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
-roads that lay before them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Mail
-
-
-It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
-before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
-The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
-Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
-as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
-for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
-and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
-horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
-coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
-to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
-combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
-otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
-are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
-their duty.
-
-With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
-the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
-falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
-them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
-near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
-unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
-hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
-nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
-
-There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
-forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
-none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
-air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
-waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
-everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
-and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
-into it, as if they had made it all.
-
-Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
-side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
-ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
-anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
-hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
-the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
-were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
-the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
-when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
-“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
-non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
-of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
-thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
-he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
-and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
-loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
-deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
-
-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
-the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
-all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
-the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
-taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
-journey.
-
-“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
-top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
-it!--Joe!”
-
-“Halloa!” the guard replied.
-
-“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”
-
-“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
-
-“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
-yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
-
-The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
-made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
-suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
-passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
-stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
-had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
-into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
-getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
-
-The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
-stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
-the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
-
-“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
-box.
-
-“What do you say, Tom?”
-
-They both listened.
-
-“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”
-
-“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
-of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
-name, all of you!”
-
-With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
-the offensive.
-
-The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
-the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
-remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
-in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
-and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
-back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
-his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
-
-The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
-of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
-indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
-the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
-passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
-quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
-the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
-
-The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
-
-“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
-I shall fire!”
-
-The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
-a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”
-
-“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Why do you want to know?”
-
-“I want a passenger, if it is.”
-
-“What passenger?”
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”
-
-Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
-the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
-
-“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
-“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
-your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”
-
-“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
-speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”
-
-(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
-himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)
-
-“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“What is the matter?”
-
-“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”
-
-“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
-road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
-passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
-pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
-
-“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
-guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”
-
-“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
-
-“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
-saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
-at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
-now let's look at you.”
-
-The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
-and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
-stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
-a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
-rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
-the man.
-
-“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
-
-The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
-blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
-answered curtly, “Sir.”
-
-“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
-know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
-to drink. I may read this?”
-
-“If so be as you're quick, sir.”
-
-He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
-read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
-It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
-TO LIFE.”
-
-Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
- said he, at his hoarsest.
-
-“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
-well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”
-
-With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
-all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
-their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
-pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
-the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
-
-The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
-it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
-in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
-having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
-looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
-few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
-furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
-and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
-himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
-and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
-five minutes.
-
-“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.
-
-“Hallo, Joe.”
-
-“Did you hear the message?”
-
-“I did, Joe.”
-
-“What did you make of it, Tom?”
-
-“Nothing at all, Joe.”
-
-“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
-myself.”
-
-Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
-only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
-shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
-holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
-heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
-hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
-hill.
-
-“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
-fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
-glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
-message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
-be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
-Jerry!”
-
-
-
-
-III. The Night Shadows
-
-
-A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
-constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
-solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
-one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
-room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
-heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
-its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
-awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
-turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
-to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
-water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
-of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
-book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
-but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
-eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
-in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
-my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
-consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
-individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
-any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
-a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
-innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
-
-As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
-messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
-first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
-three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
-coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
-been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
-breadth of a county between him and the next.
-
-The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
-ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
-own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
-assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
-no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
-were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
-far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
-a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
-throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
-for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
-poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
-muffled again.
-
-“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
-“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
-suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
-been a drinking!”
-
-His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
-times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
-which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
-over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
-so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
-wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
-have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
-
-While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
-watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
-was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
-night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
-shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
-They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
-
-What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
-its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
-likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
-their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
-
-Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
-passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
-lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
-and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
-jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
-coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
-bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
-stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
-and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
-all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
-the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
-stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
-little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
-them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
-safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
-
-But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
-(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
-always with him, there was another current of impression that never
-ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
-out of a grave.
-
-Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
-was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
-not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
-years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
-and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
-defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
-so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
-and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
-prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
-spectre:
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-“You know that you are recalled to life?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”
-
-The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
-the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
- Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
-“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
-was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”
-
-After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
-and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
-hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
-hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
-passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
-reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
-
-Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
-patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
-by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
-of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
-real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
-sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
-of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
-it again.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
-passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
-securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
-slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
-slid away into the bank and the grave.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
-his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
-passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
-shadows of the night were gone.
-
-He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
-ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
-last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
-in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
-upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
-and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
-
-“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
-Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
-
-
-
-
-IV. The Preparation
-
-
-When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
-the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
-custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
-from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
-traveller upon.
-
-By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
-congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
-roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
-and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
-like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
-of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
-muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
-
-“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
-
-“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
-tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
-sir?”
-
-“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”
-
-“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
-Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
-gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
-Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”
-
-The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
-mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
-head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
-Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
-all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
-drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
-loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
-and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
-brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
-square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
-his breakfast.
-
-The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
-in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
-with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
-that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
-
-Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
-loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
-as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
-evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
-of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
-fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
-wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
-head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
-looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
-His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
-was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
-beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
-face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
-quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
-their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
-reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
-cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
-But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
-principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
-second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
-
-Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
-Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
-and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
-
-“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
-time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
-gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
-their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
-vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”
-
-“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
-sir?”
-
-“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
-from France.”
-
-“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
-time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
-Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
-years ago?”
-
-“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
-the truth.”
-
-“Indeed, sir!”
-
-Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
-table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
-dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
-he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
-immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
-
-When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
-the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
-from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
-ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
-wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
-destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
-brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
-a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
-dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
-fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
-night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
-made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
-sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
-that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
-
-As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
-at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
-again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
-too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
-his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
-digging, digging, in the live red coals.
-
-A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
-harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
-Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
-glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
-ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
-got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
-street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
-
-He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.
-
-In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
-had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
-Tellson's.
-
-“So soon?”
-
-Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
-then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
-immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
-
-The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
-glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
-wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
-It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
-horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
-oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
-were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
-graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
-from them until they were dug out.
-
-The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
-way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
-the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
-candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
-the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
-and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
-his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
-hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
-a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
-it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
-not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
-fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
-eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
-of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
-Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
-high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
-the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
-procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
-offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
-feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
-
-“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
-little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
-
-“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
-date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
-
-“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
-some intelligence--or discovery--”
-
-“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
-
-“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
-long dead--”
-
-Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
-hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
-anybody in their absurd baskets!
-
-“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
-with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
-the purpose.”
-
-“Myself.”
-
-“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”
-
-She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
-pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
-was than she. He made her another bow.
-
-“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
-those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
-France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
-me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
-during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
-gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
-beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
-
-“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
-be more happy to execute it.”
-
-“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
-by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
-business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
-nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
-strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
-
-“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”
-
-After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
-ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”
-
-He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
-forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
-and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
-as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
-shadow.
-
-“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
-
-“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
-an argumentative smile.
-
-Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
-which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
-deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
-she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
-moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
-
-“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
-as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”
-
-“If you please, sir.”
-
-“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
-acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
-if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
-your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
-
-“Story!”
-
-He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
-in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
-our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
-gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”
-
-“Not of Beauvais?”
-
-“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
-Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
-time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”
-
-“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”
-
-“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
-I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
-French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
-In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
-scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
-there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
-sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
-business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
-the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
-machine. To go on--”
-
-“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
-curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
-left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
-it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
-to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
-conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
-the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
-his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
-down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
-
-“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
-just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
-with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
-that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
-Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
-Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
-of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
-Mangle.”
-
-After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
-flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
-unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
-before), and resumed his former attitude.
-
-“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
-regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
-when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”
-
-She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
-
-“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
-the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
-him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
-business. As I was saying--”
-
-Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
-
-“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
-and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
-been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
-trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
-privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
-to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
-privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
-to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
-implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
-him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
-been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”
-
-“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
-
-“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”
-
-“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
-moment.”
-
-“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
-his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
-Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
-if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
-had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
-born--”
-
-“The little child was a daughter, sir.”
-
-“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
-poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
-that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
-inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
-rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
-Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
-
-“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
-
-“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
-business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
-mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
-shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
-much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
-
-Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
-very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
-his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
-communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
-
-“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
-you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
-you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
-her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
-to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
-upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
-heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
-
-As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
-flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
-been already tinged with grey.
-
-“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
-they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
-discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
-
-He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
-forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
-now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
-
-“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
-probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
-Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
-in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
-restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
-
-A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
-low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
-
-“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”
-
-Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
-there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
-You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
-sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
-
-She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
-have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
-
-“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
-wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
-another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
-worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
-know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
-held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
-because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
-anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
-events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
-Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
-the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
-to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
-and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
-which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
-word! Miss Manette!”
-
-Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
-sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
-upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
-branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
-feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
-out loudly for assistance without moving.
-
-A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
-be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
-extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
-wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
-or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
-inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
-poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
-flying back against the nearest wall.
-
-(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
-reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
-
-“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
-“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
-at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
-things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
-water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”
-
-There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
-softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
-gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
-golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
-
-“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
-“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
-to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
-you call _that_ being a Banker?”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
-answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
-sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
-servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
-not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
-regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
-upon her shoulder.
-
-“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
-
-“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
-humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”
-
-“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
-intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
-would have cast my lot in an island?”
-
-This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
-consider it.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wine-shop
-
-
-A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
-accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
-out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
-outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
-
-All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
-idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
-stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
-thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
-had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
-jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
-made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
-women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
-run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
-the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
-handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
-mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
-others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
-there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
-directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
-pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
-fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
-wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
-along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
-if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
-presence.
-
-A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
-and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
-was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
-special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
-of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
-luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
-shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
-together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
-most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
-demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
-had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
-motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
-hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
-starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
-with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
-the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
-gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
-
-The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
-in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
-stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
-wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
-on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
-stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
-Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
-tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
-head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
-upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
-
-The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
-street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
-
-And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
-gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
-heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
-waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
-but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
-terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
-fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
-passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
-in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
-had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
-children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
-grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
-was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
-of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
-lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
-paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
-firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
-chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
-among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
-baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
-bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
-was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
-chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
-farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
-drops of oil.
-
-Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
-street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
-diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
-and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
-that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
-wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
-slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
-compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
-into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
-inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
-were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
-painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
-meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
-croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
-gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
-flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
-and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
-gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
-with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
-broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
-the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
-rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
-the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
-pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
-and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
-manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
-the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
-
-For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
-should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
-long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
-up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
-condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
-France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
-song and feather, took no warning.
-
-The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
-appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
-it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
-for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
-of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
-another.”
-
-There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
-he called to him across the way:
-
-“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
-
-The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
-the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
-often the way with his tribe too.
-
-“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
-keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
-mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
-in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
-to write such words in?”
-
-In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
-perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
-own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
-attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
-hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
-practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
-
-“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
-there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
-dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
-his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
-
-This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
-and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
-bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
-His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
-the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
-crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
-eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
-the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
-resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
-down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
-the man.
-
-Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
-came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
-a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
-heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
-manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
-have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
-in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
-sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
-shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
-earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
-her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
-by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
-coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
-of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
-line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
-shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
-he stepped over the way.
-
-The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
-rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
-a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
-dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
-of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
-elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”
-
-“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
-to himself; “I don't know you.”
-
-But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
-with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
-all the spilt wine swallowed?”
-
-“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
-
-When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
-picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
-and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
-Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
-of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
-
-“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
-
-At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
-using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
-cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
-drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
-
-“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
-always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
-right, Jacques?”
-
-“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
-when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
-slightly rustled in her seat.
-
-“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”
-
-The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
-flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
-giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
-wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
-of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
-upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
-wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
-fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
-close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
-my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
-there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
-
-They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
-Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
-gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
-
-“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
-the door.
-
-Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
-word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
-not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
-beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
-knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
-
-Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
-joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
-company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
-and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
-by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
-gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
-to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
-a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
-transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
-in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
-angry, dangerous man.
-
-“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
- Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
-ascending the stairs.
-
-“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
-
-“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
-same low voice.
-
-“Is he always alone, then?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Of his own desire?”
-
-“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
-found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
-discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
-
-“He is greatly changed?”
-
-“Changed!”
-
-The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
-and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
-forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
-two companions ascended higher and higher.
-
-Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
-parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
-indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
-within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
-the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
-staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
-flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
-hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
-the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
-intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
-insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
-and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
-his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
-Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
-at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
-uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
-to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
-caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
-or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
-promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
-
-At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
-third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
-and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
-was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
-advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
-dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
-here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
-his shoulder, took out a key.
-
-“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
-
-“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
-
-“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
-closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
-frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
-harm--if his door was left open.”
-
-“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
-world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
-are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
-that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
-
-This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
-of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
-under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
-and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
-on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
-
-“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
-moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
-all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
-bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
-That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
-
-They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
-soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
-once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
-the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
-the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
-footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
-themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
-wine-shop.
-
-“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
-Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
-
-The three glided by, and went silently down.
-
-There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
-the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
-Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
-
-“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
-
-“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
-
-“Is that well?”
-
-“_I_ think it is well.”
-
-“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
-
-“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
-sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
-thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
-
-With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
-through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
-twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
-make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
-three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
-it as heavily as he could.
-
-The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
-room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
-than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
-
-He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
-got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
-felt that she was sinking.
-
-“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
-business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
-
-“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
-
-“Of it? What?”
-
-“I mean of him. Of my father.”
-
-Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
-their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
-shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
-down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
-
-Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
-took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
-methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
-could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
-where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
-
-The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
-and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
-roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
-the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
-other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
-door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
-Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
-was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
-alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
-requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
-done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
-towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
-him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
-busy, making shoes.
-
-
-
-
-VI. The Shoemaker
-
-
-“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
-bent low over the shoemaking.
-
-It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
-salutation, as if it were at a distance:
-
-“Good day!”
-
-“You are still hard at work, I see?”
-
-After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
-voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
-had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
-
-The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
-faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
-doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
-the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
-of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
-resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
-beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
-suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
-it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
-wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
-home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
-
-Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
-up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
-perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
-aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
-
-“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
-“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”
-
-The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
-at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
-other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“You can bear a little more light?”
-
-“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
-stress upon the second word.)
-
-The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
-angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
-showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
-labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
-feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
-long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
-thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
-dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
-otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
-His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
-to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
-stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
-from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
-parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
-
-He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
-of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
-pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
-first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
-lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
-first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
-
-“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
-motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
-
-“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”
-
-But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
-
-Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
-he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
-looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
-unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
-it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
-the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
-look and the action had occupied but an instant.
-
-“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Here is a visitor.”
-
-The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
-work.
-
-“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
-he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
-
-“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
-
-There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
-
-“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”
-
-“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
-information?”
-
-“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
-present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
-glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
-
-“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.
-
-Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
-in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
-hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
-so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
-recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
-had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
-endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
-fast-dying man.
-
-“Did you ask me for my name?”
-
-“Assuredly I did.”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
-again, until the silence was again broken.
-
-“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
-at him.
-
-His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
-question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
-on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
-
-“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
-learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”
-
-He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
-hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
-from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
-resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
-subject of last night.
-
-“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
-a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”
-
-As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
-Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
-
-“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
-
-The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
-questioner.
-
-“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
-remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
-banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
-mind, Monsieur Manette?”
-
-As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
-Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
-intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
-through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
-again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
-so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
-had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
-she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
-raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
-shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
-trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
-breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
-repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
-looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
-
-Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
-less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
-and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
-took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
-
-“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.
-
-“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
-unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
-well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”
-
-She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
-which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
-figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
-over his labour.
-
-Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
-beside him, and he bent over his work.
-
-It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
-in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
-which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
-stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
-raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
-but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
-striking at her with the knife, though they had.
-
-He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
-to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
-the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
-
-“What is this?”
-
-With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
-lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
-laid his ruined head there.
-
-“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”
-
-She sighed “No.”
-
-“Who are you?”
-
-Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
-beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
-thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
-laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
-
-Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
-aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
-little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
-he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
-shoemaking.
-
-But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
-shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
-be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
-to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
-attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
-a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
-hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
-
-He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
-the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”
-
-As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
-become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
-light, and looked at her.
-
-“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
-out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
-brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
-leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
-may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
-well.”
-
-He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
-But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
-though slowly.
-
-“How was this?--_Was it you_?”
-
-Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
-frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
-said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
-us, do not speak, do not move!”
-
-“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”
-
-His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
-hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
-shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
-tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
-gloomily shook his head.
-
-“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
-prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
-she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
-was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
-name, my gentle angel?”
-
-Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
-before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
-
-“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
-and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
-cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
-tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
-me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”
-
-His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
-lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
-
-“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
-is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
-sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
-touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
-breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
-I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
-with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
-remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
-weep for it, weep for it!”
-
-She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
-child.
-
-“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
-have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
-peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
-and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
-if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
-and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
-honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
-striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
-my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
-for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
-tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
-God for us, thank God!”
-
-He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
-touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
-had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
-
-When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
-breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
-storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
-called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
-daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
-there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
-head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
-him from the light.
-
-“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
-he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
-arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
-could be taken away--”
-
-“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
-him.”
-
-“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
-than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
-Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”
-
-“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
-methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”
-
-“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
-composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
-now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
-interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
-as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
-you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
-
-Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
-in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
-and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
-for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
-dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
-to do it.
-
-Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
-hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
-deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
-through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
-had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
-meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
-lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
-garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
-assisted him to his feet.
-
-No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
-the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
-whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
-he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
-tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
-answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
-the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
-occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
-in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
-daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
-
-In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
-ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
-and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
-his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
-in both his own.
-
-They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
-Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
-of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
-round at the walls.
-
-“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
-she had repeated it.
-
-“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”
-
-That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
-prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
-evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
-him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
-tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
-no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
-dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
-
-No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
-many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
-silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
-that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
-saw nothing.
-
-The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
-him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
-miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
-Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
-went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
-brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
-against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
-
-Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
-postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
-over-swinging lamps.
-
-Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
-streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
-illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
-gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
-travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
-getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
-monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
-him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
-military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
-in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
-or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
-Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
-grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
-grove of stars.
-
-Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
-this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
-rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
-is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
-All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
-whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
-man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
-lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:
-
-“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”
-
-And the old answer:
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-
-The end of the first book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
-
-
-
-I. Five Years Later
-
-
-Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
-year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
-dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
-moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
-proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
-proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
-in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
-it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
-no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
-convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
-no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
-embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
-Tellson's, thank Heaven--!
-
-Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
-question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
-on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
-suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
-objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
-
-Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
-of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
-a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
-and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
-counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
-wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
-windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
-and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
-heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
-“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
-where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
-hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
-twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
-drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
-they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
-were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
-the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
-polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
-made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
-parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
-papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
-dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
-one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
-by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
-from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
-exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
-Abyssinia or Ashantee.
-
-But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
-with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
-Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
-Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
-was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
-purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
-of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
-Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
-three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
-Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
-might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
-reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
-particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
-after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
-its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
-low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
-disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
-ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
-
-Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
-oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
-man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
-old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
-Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
-be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
-and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
-
-Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
-odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
-sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
-upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
-of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
-in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
-tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
-this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
-occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
-easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
-appellation of Jerry.
-
-The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
-Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
-morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
-always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
-the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
-popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
-
-Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
-but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
-might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
-it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
-already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
-for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
-was spread.
-
-Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
-at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
-and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
-looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
-exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
-
-“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
-
-A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
-corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
-person referred to.
-
-“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
-agin, are you?”
-
-After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
-the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
-odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
-whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
-often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
-
-“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
-mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”
-
-“I was only saying my prayers.”
-
-“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
-yourself down and praying agin me?”
-
-“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”
-
-“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
-your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
-father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
-You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
-herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
-of the mouth of her only child.”
-
-Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
-to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
-board.
-
-“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
-unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
-Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”
-
-“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
-that.”
-
-“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
-much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
-afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
-you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
-child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
-wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
-have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
-countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
-B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
-on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
-another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
-devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
-boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
-then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
-tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
-in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
-laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
-it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
-I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
-been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
-it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
-say now!”
-
-Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
-You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
-and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
-from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
-himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
-In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
-and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
-kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
-woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
-his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
---Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
-again with an undutiful grin.
-
-Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
-breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
-animosity.
-
-“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”
-
-His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
-
-“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
-to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
-ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
-blest off my table. Keep still!”
-
-Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
-which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
-his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
-inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
-aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
-he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
-of the day.
-
-It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
-description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
-a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
-young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
-beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
-with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
-from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
-feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
-Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
-itself,--and was almost as in-looking.
-
-Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
-three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
-Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
-standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
-inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
-boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
-extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
-in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
-eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
-The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
-the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
-youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
-in Fleet-street.
-
-The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
-establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
-
-“Porter wanted!”
-
-“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”
-
-Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
-the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
-had been chewing, and cogitated.
-
-“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
-“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
-rust here!”
-
-
-
-
-II. A Sight
-
-
-“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
-clerks to Jerry the messenger.
-
-“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
-know the Bailey.”
-
-“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
-better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
-in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”
-
-“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
-door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”
-
-“Into the court, sir?”
-
-“Into the court.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
-interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”
-
-“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
-conference.
-
-“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
-Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
-attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
-to remain there until he wants you.”
-
-“Is that all, sir?”
-
-“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
-you are there.”
-
-As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
-Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
-blotting-paper stage, remarked:
-
-“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”
-
-“Treason!”
-
-“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”
-
-“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
-spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”
-
-“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
-him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
-
-“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
-care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
-care of itself. I give you that advice.”
-
-“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
-leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
-
-“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
-gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
-ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”
-
-Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
-deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
-too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
-and went his way.
-
-They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
-not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
-But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
-villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
-into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
-dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
-had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
-his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
-For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
-from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
-a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
-half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
-So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
-was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
-a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
-the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
-softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
-blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
-leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
-under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
-illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
-that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
-consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
-
-Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
-hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
-way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
-his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
-at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
-former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
-doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
-criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
-
-After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
-very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
-court.
-
-“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
-to.
-
-“Nothing yet.”
-
-“What's coming on?”
-
-“The Treason case.”
-
-“The quartering one, eh?”
-
-“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
-be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
-face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
-and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
-That's the sentence.”
-
-“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.
-
-“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
-that.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
-saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
-sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
-gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
-before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
-in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
-then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
-court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
-with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
-to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
-
-“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
-
-“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.
-
-“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
-
-“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.
-
-The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
-central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
-went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
-
-Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
-ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
-at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
-pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
-stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
-laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
-themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
-upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
-Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
-of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
-whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
-the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
-that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
-in an impure mist and rain.
-
-The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
-five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
-a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
-dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
-dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
-of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
-itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
-situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
-soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
-bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
-
-The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
-was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
-horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
-details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
-fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
-was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
-and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
-spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
-powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
-
-Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
-an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
-he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
-forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
-occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
-King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
-so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
-our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
-said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
-evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
-said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
-to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
-becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
-huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
-the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
-there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
-that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
-
-The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
-beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
-the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
-attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
-and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
-composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
-it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
-vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
-
-Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
-upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
-it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
-in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
-glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
-day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
-for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
-that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
-of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
-face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
-
-It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
-which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
-in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
-immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
-aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
-
-The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
-twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
-remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
-and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
-but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
-looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
-it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
-handsome man, not past the prime of life.
-
-His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
-him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
-dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
-been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
-that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
-noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
-had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
-“Who are they?”
-
-Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
-manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
-absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
-him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
-from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
-to Jerry:
-
-“Witnesses.”
-
-“For which side?”
-
-“Against.”
-
-“Against what side?”
-
-“The prisoner's.”
-
-The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
-leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
-in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
-axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
-
-
-
-
-III. A Disappointment
-
-
-Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
-them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
-claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
-public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
-even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
-prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
-repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
-he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
-traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
-wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
-That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
-was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
-prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
-Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
-That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
-attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
-friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
-infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
-in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
-were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
-benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
-they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
-as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
-knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
-whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
-they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
-especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
-That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
-for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
-communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
-a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
-and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
-hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
-in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
-brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
-Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
-on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
-witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
-produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
-his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
-sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
-such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
-proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
-same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
-showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
-would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
-in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
-very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
-That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
-were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
-positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
-they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
-pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
-their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
-of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
-there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
-pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
-Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
-everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
-of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
-good as dead and gone.
-
-When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
-a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
-anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
-unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
-
-Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
-patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
-exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
-it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
-of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
-wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
-Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
-opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
-
-Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
-What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
-precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
-Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
-distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
-prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
-prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
-times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
-been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
-Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
-downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
-dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
-committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
-Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
-more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
-Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
-very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
-No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
-about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
-Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
-pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
-no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
-patriotism? None whatever.
-
-The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
-great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
-simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
-packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
-He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
-charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
-the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
-his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
-prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
-the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
-had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
-at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
-Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
-information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
-he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
-only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
-that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
-coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
-curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
-was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
-
-The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry.
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
-seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
-Dover by the mail?”
-
-“It did.”
-
-“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
-
-“Two.”
-
-“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
-
-“They did.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”
-
-“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
-
-“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
-
-“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
-reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
-those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
-render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”
-
-“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
-myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
-air.”
-
-“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“I certainly have seen that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
-certain knowledge, before?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
-prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
-voyage with me.”
-
-“At what hour did he come on board?”
-
-“At a little after midnight.”
-
-“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
-at that untimely hour?”
-
-“He happened to be the only one.”
-
-“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
-came on board in the dead of the night?”
-
-“He was.”
-
-“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
-
-“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
-
-“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
-
-“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
-I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
-
-“Miss Manette!”
-
-The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
-turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
-kept her hand drawn through his arm.
-
-“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
-
-To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
-far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
-Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
-the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
-to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
-before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
-to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
-rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
-
-“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Where?”
-
-“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
-occasion.”
-
-“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
-
-“O! most unhappily, I am!”
-
-The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
-of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
-to you, and make no remark upon them.”
-
-“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
-passage across the Channel?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Recall it.”
-
-In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
-gentleman came on board--”
-
-“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
-
-“Yes, my Lord.”
-
-“Then say the prisoner.”
-
-“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
-her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
-and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
-afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
-deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
-care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
-The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
-shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
-had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
-set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
-great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
-felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
-
-“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“How many were with him?”
-
-“Two French gentlemen.”
-
-“Had they conferred together?”
-
-“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
-necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”
-
-“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”
-
-“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
-papers.”
-
-“Like these in shape and size?”
-
-“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
-near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
-light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
-spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
-they looked at papers.”
-
-“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”
-
-“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
-of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
-father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
-harm to-day.”
-
-Buzzing from the blue-flies.
-
-“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
-you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
-give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
-he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”
-
-“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
-difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
-therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
-had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
-take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
-time to come.”
-
-“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”
-
-“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
-that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
-England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
-Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
-Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
-laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
-
-Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
-a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
-unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
-anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
-she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
-the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
-expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
-of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
-when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
-heresy about George Washington.
-
-Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
-necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
-father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
-
-“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
-
-“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
-three years and a half ago.”
-
-“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
-speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
-
-“Sir, I can do neither.”
-
-“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
-either?”
-
-He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
-
-“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
-trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”
-
-He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”
-
-“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
-
-“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
-time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
-time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
-here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
-my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
-familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
-
-Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
-together.
-
-A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
-to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
-in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
-got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
-not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
-to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
-was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
-in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
-waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
-this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
-on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
-been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
-little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
-this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
-attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
-
-“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
-
-The witness was quite sure.
-
-“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
-
-Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
-
-“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
-to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
-prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”
-
-Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
-if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
-not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
-into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
-his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
-much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
-counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
-friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
-would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
-happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
-this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
-confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
-this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
-useless lumber.
-
-Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
-fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
-Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
-of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
-traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
-scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
-rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
-and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
-swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
-affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
-those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
-consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
-even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
-and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
-had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
-gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
-and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
-reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
-impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
-How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
-attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
-and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
-how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
-character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
-State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
-(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
-not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
-
-Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
-attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
-Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
-Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
-prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
-the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
-decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
-
-And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
-
-Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
-changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
-While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
-whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
-anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
-grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
-and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
-in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
-sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
-on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
-hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
-day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
-a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
-undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
-when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
-lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
-hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
-observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
-that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
-to get any, do he?”
-
-Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
-appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
-her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
-“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
-Don't you see she will fall!”
-
-There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
-sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
-him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
-strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
-brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
-ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
-moment, spoke, through their foreman.
-
-They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
-Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
-but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
-and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
-the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
-jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
-refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
-down.
-
-Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
-now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
-could easily get near him.
-
-“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
-way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
-behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
-are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
-before I can.”
-
-Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
-acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
-at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
-
-“How is the young lady?”
-
-“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
-feels the better for being out of court.”
-
-“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
-like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
-in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
-The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
-eyes, ears, and spikes.
-
-“Mr. Darnay!”
-
-The prisoner came forward directly.
-
-“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
-will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”
-
-“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
-for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
-
-“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
-
-Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
-half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
-
-“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
-
-“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
-Mr. Darnay?”
-
-“The worst.”
-
-“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
-withdrawing is in your favour.”
-
-Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
-more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
-in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
-them.
-
-An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
-passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
-The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
-refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
-of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
-with them.
-
-“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
-there.
-
-“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
-
-Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
-it?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
-
-“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
-Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”
-
-He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
-until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
-with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
-swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
-search of other carrion.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Congratulatory
-
-
-From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
-human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
-Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
-for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
-Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
-death.
-
-It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
-in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
-shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
-twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
-had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
-to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
-reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
-lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
-from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
-itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
-unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
-Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
-hundred miles away.
-
-Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
-his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
-misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
-the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
-influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
-recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
-and slight, and she believed them over.
-
-Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
-to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
-more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
-loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
-way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
-conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
-
-He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
-late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
-out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
-Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
-less likely to succeed on that account.”
-
-“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
- said his late client, taking his hand.
-
-“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
-another man's, I believe.”
-
-It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
-said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
-object of squeezing himself back again.
-
-“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
-and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
-
-“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
-now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
-him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
-this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
-Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”
-
-“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
-do yet. Speak for yourself.”
-
-“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
-Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
- He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
-
-His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
-Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
-not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
-thoughts had wandered away.
-
-“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
-
-He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
-
-“Shall we go home, my father?”
-
-With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”
-
-The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
-impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
-released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
-passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
-and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
-gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
-Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
-the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
-departed in it.
-
-Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
-to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
-interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
-against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
-out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
-stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
-
-“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”
-
-Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
-proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
-better for it in appearance.
-
-“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
-business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
-appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
-sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
-have to think of the House more than ourselves.”
-
-“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
-nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
-I dare say.”
-
-“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
-know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
-much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
-business.”
-
-“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“It is a pity you have not, sir.”
-
-“I think so, too.”
-
-“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”
-
-“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
-“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
-if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
-Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
-for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
-I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
-life.--Chair there!”
-
-Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
-Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
-who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
-then, and turned to Darnay:
-
-“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
-be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
-these street stones?”
-
-“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
-again.”
-
-“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
-advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”
-
-“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”
-
-“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
-numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
-some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”
-
-Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
-Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
-shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
-his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
-opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
-before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
-
-“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
-Darnay?”
-
-“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
-mended as to feel that.”
-
-“It must be an immense satisfaction!”
-
-He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
-one.
-
-“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
-It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
-are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
-not much alike in any particular, you and I.”
-
-Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
-this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
-at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
-
-“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
-health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”
-
-“What health? What toast?”
-
-“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
-swear it's there.”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
-flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
-pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
- he said, filling his new goblet.
-
-A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
-feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
-sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”
-
-Again Darnay answered not a word.
-
-“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
-that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”
-
-The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
-disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
-strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
-for it.
-
-“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
-“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
-it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”
-
-“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”
-
-“Do you think I particularly like you?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
-not asked myself the question.”
-
-“But ask yourself the question now.”
-
-“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”
-
-“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
-opinion of your understanding.”
-
-“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
-nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
-parting without ill-blood on either side.”
-
-Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
-reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
-bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
-ten.”
-
-The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
-Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
-of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
-I am drunk?”
-
-“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
-
-“Since I must say so, I know it.”
-
-“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
-care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
-
-“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
-
-“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
-however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”
-
-When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
-glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
-
-“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
-should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
-in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
-made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
-what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
-places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
-he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
-have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
-
-He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
-minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
-table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Jackal
-
-
-Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
-the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
-statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
-in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
-perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
-The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
-learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
-Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
-practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
-drier parts of the legal race.
-
-A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
-begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
-he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
-specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
-visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
-florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
-the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
-among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
-
-It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
-man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
-faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
-among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
-But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
-business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
-pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
-Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
-
-Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
-ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
-might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
-anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
-at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
-they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
-rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
-to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
-among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
-would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
-rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
-wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“_What's_ the matter?”
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”
-
-“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
-
-“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
-
-After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
-dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
-he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
-and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
-Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
-
-The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
-home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
-and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
-had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
-may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
-Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
-Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
-
-“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.
-
-“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”
-
-They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
-where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
-the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
-it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
-
-“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”
-
-“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
-seeing him dine--it's all one!”
-
-“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
-identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”
-
-“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
-been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”
-
-Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
-
-“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”
-
-Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
-room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
-or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
-out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
-at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”
-
-“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
-gaily, as he looked among his papers.
-
-“How much?”
-
-“Only two sets of them.”
-
-“Give me the worst first.”
-
-“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
-
-The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
-drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
-proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
-his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
-a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
-his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
-lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
-so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
-stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
-more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
-matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
-him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
-jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
-no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
-gravity.
-
-At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
-proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
-made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
-assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
-hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
-invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
-to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
-this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
-disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
-
-“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
-Stryver.
-
-The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
-again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
-
-“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
-to-day. Every question told.”
-
-“I always am sound; am I not?”
-
-“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
-it and smooth it again.”
-
-With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
-
-“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
-his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
-old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
-now in despondency!”
-
-“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
-luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
-
-He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
-him, looking at the fire.
-
-“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
-as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
-was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
-Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
-is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
-at me.”
-
-“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
-good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”
-
-“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
-do?”
-
-“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
-your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
-do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”
-
-“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”
-
-“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
-Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
-
-“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
- pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
-mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
-picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
-didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
-nowhere.”
-
-“And whose fault was that?”
-
-“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
-driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
-that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
-thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
-Turn me in some other direction before I go.”
-
-“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
-his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”
-
-Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
-
-“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
-enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”
-
-“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”
-
-“_She_ pretty?”
-
-“Is she not?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”
-
-“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
-of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”
-
-“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
-and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
-thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
-and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”
-
-“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
-yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
-I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
-I'll get to bed.”
-
-When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
-him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
-windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
-dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
-lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
-before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
-the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
-
-Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
-on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
-wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
-perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
-from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
-fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
-A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
-houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
-pillow was wet with wasted tears.
-
-Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
-good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
-incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
-on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
-
-
-
-
-VI. Hundreds of People
-
-
-The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
-far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
-waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
-it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
-on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
-business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
-quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
-
-On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
-the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
-Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
-secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
-them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
-generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
-his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
-Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
-them.
-
-A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
-found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
-the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
-had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
-north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
-grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
-consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
-instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
-settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
-the peaches ripened in their season.
-
-The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
-of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
-though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
-glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
-place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
-
-There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
-there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
-several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
-audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
-a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
-rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
-to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
-who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
-he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
-visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
-to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
-a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
-workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
-about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
-thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
-required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
-the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
-from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
-
-Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
-its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
-His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
-ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
-he earned as much as he wanted.
-
-These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
-notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
-on the fine Sunday afternoon.
-
-“Doctor Manette at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Lucie at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Pross at home?”
-
-Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
-anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
-fact.
-
-“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”
-
-Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
-birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
-make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
-agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
-by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
-that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
-rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
-the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
-delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
-themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
-stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
-with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
-time, whether he approved?
-
-There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
-communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
-all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
-he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
-the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
-and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
-the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
-changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
-Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
-bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
-dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
-
-“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
-that reminder of his sufferings about him!”
-
-“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
-
-It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
-acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
-had since improved.
-
-“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.
-
-“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
-
-“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
-express that she bore him no malice.
-
-“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
-are you?”
-
-“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
-Ladybird.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
-fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
-stature) was shortness.
-
-“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
-
-“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
-very much put out.”
-
-“May I ask the cause?”
-
-“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
-come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”
-
-“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.
-
-It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
-time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
-she exaggerated it.
-
-“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
-
-“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
-paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
-your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
-for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
- said Miss Pross.
-
-Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
-using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
-fit anything.
-
-“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
-are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”
-
-“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”
-
-“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”
-
-“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
-enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
-that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
-him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
-circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
-and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
-him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”
-
-Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
-this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
-unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
-admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
-it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
-never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
-their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
-is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
-rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
-respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
-mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
-Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
-better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
-
-“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
-Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
-mistake in life.”
-
-Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
-established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
-who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
-speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
-no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
-(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
-matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
-
-“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
-business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
-sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
-in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”
-
-“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
-refer to it within himself.”
-
-“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”
-
-“I do,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
-short with:
-
-“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”
-
-“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
-sometimes?”
-
-“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
-bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
-theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
-the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
-oppressor?”
-
-“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”
-
-“And that is--?”
-
-“That she thinks he has.”
-
-“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
-mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”
-
-“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
-
-Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
-no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
-Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
-he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
-though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
-intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
-attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
-Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
-zealous interest.”
-
-“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
-me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
-of the whole subject.”
-
-“Afraid?”
-
-“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
-remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
-knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
-feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
-subject pleasant, I should think.”
-
-It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
-he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
-Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
-always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
-it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”
-
-“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
-string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
-In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
-the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
-up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
-know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
-his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
-and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
-a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
-best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
-together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
-brought him to himself.”
-
-Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
-perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
-in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
-her possessing such a thing.
-
-The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
-had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
-seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
-set it going.
-
-“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
-“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”
-
-It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
-peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
-looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
-they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
-the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
-heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
-at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
-was ready at the street door to receive them.
-
-Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
-off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
-with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
-folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
-as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
-had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
-sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
-her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
-playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
-chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
-them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
-eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
-have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
-beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
-stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
-Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
-for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
-
-Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
-the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
-always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
-quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
-contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
-better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
-kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
-impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
-impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
-of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
-who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
-or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
-a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
-pleased.
-
-On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
-persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
-regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
-which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
-Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
-to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
-
-It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
-wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
-there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
-they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
-the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
-time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
-plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
-and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
-whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
-
-Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
-presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
-was only One.
-
-Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
-suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
-retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
-disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
-jerks.”
-
-The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
-resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
-they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
-his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
-likeness.
-
-He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
-vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
-plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
-which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
-the Tower?”
-
-“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
-it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”
-
-“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
-though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
-character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
-curious thing when I was there.”
-
-“What was that?” Lucie asked.
-
-“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
-had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
-its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
-prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
-in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
-execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
-some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
-At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
-examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
-legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
-were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
-that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
-floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
-earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
-the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
-or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
-had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”
-
-“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”
-
-He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
-his look quite terrified them all.
-
-“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
-made me start. We had better go in.”
-
-He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
-drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
-said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
-of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
-either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
-towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
-when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
-
-He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
-his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
-steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
-was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
-that the rain had startled him.
-
-Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
-her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
-made only Two.
-
-The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
-windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
-done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
-heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
-leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
-the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
-ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
-
-“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
-Manette. “It comes slowly.”
-
-“It comes surely,” said Carton.
-
-They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
-dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
-
-There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
-get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
-resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
-footstep was there.
-
-“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
-listened for a while.
-
-“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
-sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
-a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
-solemn--”
-
-“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”
-
-“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
-originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
-sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
-the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
-by-and-bye into our lives.”
-
-“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
- Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
-
-The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
-rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
-as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
-coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
-the distant streets, and not one within sight.
-
-“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
-are we to divide them among us?”
-
-“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
-asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
-then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
-into my life, and my father's.”
-
-“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
-stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
-and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
-had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
-
-“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
-come, fast, fierce, and furious!”
-
-It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
-for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
-lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
-interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
-midnight.
-
-The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
-Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
-forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
-of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
-of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
-usually performed a good two hours earlier.
-
-“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
-bring the dead out of their graves.”
-
-“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
-would do that,” answered Jerry.
-
-“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
-Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”
-
-Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
-bearing down upon them, too.
-
-
-
-
-VII. Monseigneur in Town
-
-
-Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
-fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
-his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
-the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
-was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
-things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
-rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
-much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
-strong men besides the Cook.
-
-Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
-Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
-pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
-conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
-the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
-the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
-a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
-watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
-dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
-place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
-his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
-men; he must have died of two.
-
-Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
-and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
-a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
-impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
-more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
-state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
-for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
-favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
-days of the merry Stuart who sold it.
-
-Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
-was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
-business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
-his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
-particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
-was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
-by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
-thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”
-
-Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
-his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
-affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
-public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
-must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
-private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
-generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
-Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
-time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
-wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
-poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
-a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
-rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
-mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
-down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
-
-A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
-stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
-waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
-forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
-relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
-among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
-
-For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
-every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
-achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
-reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
-so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
-equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
-have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
-been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
-destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
-civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
-worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
-all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
-pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
-Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
-anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
-score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
-yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
-passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
-no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
-for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
-patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
-discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
-State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
-root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
-they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
-Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
-card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
-Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
-wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
-the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
-since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
-subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
-exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
-notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
-among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
-of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
-the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
-appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
-bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
-towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
-known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
-and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
-supped as at twenty.
-
-The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
-upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
-people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
-things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
-them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
-sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
-whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
-spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
-Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
-three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
-jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
-Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
-out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
-the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
-by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
-discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
-became manifest.
-
-But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
-Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
-ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
-correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
-delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
-swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
-surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
-of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
-languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
-and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
-fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
-his devouring hunger far away.
-
-Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
-things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
-was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
-Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
-of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
-descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
-required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
-and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
-rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
-Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
-him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
-Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
-of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
-hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
-see the very stars out!
-
-Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
-chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
-open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
-fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
-body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
-been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
-troubled it.
-
-Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
-happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
-passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
-Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
-course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
-sprites, and was seen no more.
-
-The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
-and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
-but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
-and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
-way out.
-
-“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
-and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”
-
-With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
-dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
-
-He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
-with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
-feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
-beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
-of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
-change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
-colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
-by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
-treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
-attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
-line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
-too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
-handsome face, and a remarkable one.
-
-Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
-drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
-stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
-in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
-to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
-often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
-charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
-check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
-sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
-that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
-custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
-barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
-time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
-left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
-
-With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
-consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
-dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
-before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
-its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
-wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
-number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
-
-But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
-stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
-behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
-and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
-
-“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
-
-A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
-the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
-down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
-
-“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
-a child.”
-
-“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”
-
-“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”
-
-The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
-into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
-got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
-Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
-
-“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
-their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”
-
-The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
-nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
-and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
-people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
-remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
-and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
-over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
-
-He took out his purse.
-
-“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
-of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
-the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
-him that.”
-
-He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
-craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
-tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”
-
-He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
-made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
-sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
-stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
-were as silent, however, as the men.
-
-“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
-Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
-live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
-as happily?”
-
-“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
-they call you?”
-
-“They call me Defarge.”
-
-“Of what trade?”
-
-“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”
-
-“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
-throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
-there; are they right?”
-
-Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
-Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
-air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
-paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
-disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
-
-“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”
-
-He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
-moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
-the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
-figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
-
-“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
-except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
-willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
-threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
-should be crushed under the wheels.”
-
-So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
-what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
-a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
-But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
-Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
-contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
-leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”
-
-He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
-succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
-Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
-whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
-had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
-on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
-spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
-which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
-bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
-while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
-of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
-had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
-of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
-into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
-time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
-in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
-things ran their course.
-
-
-
-
-VIII. Monseigneur in the Country
-
-
-A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
-Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
-and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
-inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
-tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
-disposition to give up, and wither away.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
-lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
-a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
-no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
-occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
-sun.
-
-The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
-gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
-die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”
-
-In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
-heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
-hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
-quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
-left when the drag was taken off.
-
-But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
-at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
-church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
-fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
-as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
-coming near home.
-
-The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
-tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
-fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
-its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
-shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
-fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
-the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
-were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
-for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
-paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
-the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.
-
-Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
-their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
-terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
-or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
-
-Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
-whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
-if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
-his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
-fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
-He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
-sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
-meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
-truth through the best part of a hundred years.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
-drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
-Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
-drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
-of the roads joined the group.
-
-“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.
-
-The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
-to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
-
-“I passed you on the road?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”
-
-“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true.”
-
-“What did you look at, so fixedly?”
-
-“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”
-
-He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
-carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
-
-“What man, pig? And why look there?”
-
-“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”
-
-“Who?” demanded the traveller.
-
-“Monseigneur, the man.”
-
-“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
-know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”
-
-“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
-all the days of my life, I never saw him.”
-
-“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”
-
-“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
-His head hanging over--like this!”
-
-He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
-face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
-himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
-
-“What was he like?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
-white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”
-
-The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
-eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
-the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
-conscience.
-
-“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
-vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
-and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
-Gabelle!”
-
-Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
-united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
-examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
-official manner.
-
-“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.
-
-“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
-to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”
-
-“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”
-
-“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”
-
-The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
-particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
-half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
-presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
-
-“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
-a person plunges into the river.”
-
-“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”
-
-The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
-wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
-to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
-they might not have been so fortunate.
-
-The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
-rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
-it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
-sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
-gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
-points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
-courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
-
-At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
-with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
-figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
-studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
-dreadfully spare and thin.
-
-To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
-growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
-turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
-presented herself at the carriage-door.
-
-“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”
-
-With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
-Monseigneur looked out.
-
-“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”
-
-“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”
-
-“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
-cannot pay something?”
-
-“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”
-
-“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”
-
-“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
-grass.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”
-
-“Again, well?”
-
-She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
-grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
-with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
-caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
-feel the appealing touch.
-
-“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
-want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”
-
-“Again, well? Can I feed them?”
-
-“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
-that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
-over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
-forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
-shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
-are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
-Monseigneur!”
-
-The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
-a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
-behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
-diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
-his chateau.
-
-The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
-the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
-at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
-of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
-man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
-could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
-in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
-stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
-been extinguished.
-
-The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
-was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
-for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
-of his chateau was opened to him.
-
-“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”
-
-“Monseigneur, not yet.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Gorgon's Head
-
-
-It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
-with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
-staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
-business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
-stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
-all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
-finished, two centuries ago.
-
-Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
-to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
-of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
-flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
-door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
-in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
-save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
-those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
-heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
-
-The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
-hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
-grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
-peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
-was angry.
-
-Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
-Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
-the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
-to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
-others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
-the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
-befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
-The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
-break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
-but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
-pages in the history of France.
-
-A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
-room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
-lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
-closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
-black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
-
-“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
-said he was not arrived.”
-
-Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
-
-“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
-table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
-
-In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
-sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
-he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
-lips, when he put it down.
-
-“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
-horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
-
-“Monseigneur? That?”
-
-“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”
-
-It was done.
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
-here.”
-
-The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
-the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
-for instructions.
-
-“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”
-
-That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
-half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
-hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
-front of the chateau.
-
-“Ask who is arrived.”
-
-It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
-Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
-rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
-He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
-
-He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
-there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
-He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
-
-Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
-hands.
-
-“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
-seat at table.
-
-“Yesterday. And you?”
-
-“I come direct.”
-
-“From London?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.
-
-“On the contrary; I come direct.”
-
-“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
-intending the journey.”
-
-“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
-answer--“various business.”
-
-“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.
-
-So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
-When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
-looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
-fine mask, opened a conversation.
-
-“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
-took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
-a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
-sustained me.”
-
-“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”
-
-“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
-the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”
-
-The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
-lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
-graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
-breeding that it was not reassuring.
-
-“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
-expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
-circumstances that surrounded me.”
-
-“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.
-
-“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
-deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
-and would know no scruple as to means.”
-
-“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
-two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”
-
-“I recall it.”
-
-“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
-
-His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
-instrument.
-
-“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
-bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
-France here.”
-
-“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
-“Dare I ask you to explain?”
-
-“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
-been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
-have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”
-
-“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
-of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
-Pray excuse me!”
-
-“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
-yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.
-
-“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
-politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
-consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
-your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
-yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
-at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
-aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
-might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
-and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
-(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
-things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
-of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
-dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
-one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
-some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
-lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
-assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
-to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
-bad!”
-
-The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
-as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
-containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
-
-“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
-time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
-more detested than any name in France.”
-
-“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
-involuntary homage of the low.”
-
-“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
-look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
-deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”
-
-“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
-merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
-Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
-crossed his legs.
-
-But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
-thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
-him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
-and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
-indifference.
-
-“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
-and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
-obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
-out the sky.”
-
-That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
-chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
-they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
-him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
-the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
-he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
-way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
-was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
-
-“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
-of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
-terminate our conference for the night?”
-
-“A moment more.”
-
-“An hour, if you please.”
-
-“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
-of wrong.”
-
-“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
-and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
-
-“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
-to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
-a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
-our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
-when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
-inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”
-
-“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.
-
-“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
-frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
-execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
-look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
-redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”
-
-“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
-breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
-will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”
-
-Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
-cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
-quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
-touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
-a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
-body, and said,
-
-“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
-lived.”
-
-When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
-box in his pocket.
-
-“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
-bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
-Monsieur Charles, I see.”
-
-“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
-renounce them.”
-
-“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
-is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”
-
-“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
-to me from you, to-morrow--”
-
-“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”
-
-“--or twenty years hence--”
-
-“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
-supposition.”
-
-“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
-relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
-
-“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
-under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
-mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
-and suffering.”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
-
-“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
-qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
-weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
-it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
-another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
-on it, and on all this land.”
-
-“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
-philosophy, graciously intend to live?”
-
-“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
-their backs, may have to do some day--work.”
-
-“In England, for example?”
-
-“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
-family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”
-
-The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
-lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
-Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
-valet.
-
-“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
-prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
-with a smile.
-
-“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
-be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”
-
-“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
-know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“With a daughter?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
-in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
-which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
-time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
-straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
-looked handsomely diabolic.
-
-“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
-commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
-outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
-looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
-
-“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
-again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
-chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
-added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
-valet to his own bedroom.
-
-The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
-loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
-night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
-noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
-enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
-periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
-coming on.
-
-He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
-scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
-toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
-prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
-the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
-chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
-the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
-tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”
-
-“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”
-
-So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
-gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
-with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
-
-The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
-for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
-rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
-very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
-the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
-hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
-
-For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
-stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
-dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
-The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
-were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
-have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
-taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
-the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
-the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
-freed.
-
-The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
-at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
-minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
-hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
-and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
-
-Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
-trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
-of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
-crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
-weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
-the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
-At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
-mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
-
-Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
-windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
-shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
-lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
-fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
-and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
-out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
-and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
-prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
-foot.
-
-The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
-surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
-reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
-now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
-round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
-doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
-pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
-
-All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
-return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
-chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
-figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
-everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
-
-What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
-at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
-much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
-peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
-to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
-no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
-down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
-fountain.
-
-All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
-in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
-emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
-in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
-on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
-trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
-the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
-all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
-on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
-highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
-into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
-himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
-and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
-a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
-(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
-the German ballad of Leonora?
-
-It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
-
-The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
-the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
-through about two hundred years.
-
-It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
-mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
-heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
-was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
-
-“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”
-
-
-
-
-X. Two Promises
-
-
-More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
-Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
-language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
-would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
-young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
-living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
-its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
-sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
-at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
-to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
-dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
-tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
-profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
-work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
-known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
-circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
-So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
-
-In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
-to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
-would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
-did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
-
-A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
-read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
-contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
-and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
-London.
-
-Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
-when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
-invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
-woman.
-
-He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
-heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
-he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
-confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
-him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
-at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
-long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
-mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
-much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
-
-That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
-summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
-he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
-of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
-day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
-
-He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
-which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
-their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
-very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
-of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
-sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
-exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
-frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
-
-He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
-ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
-sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
-
-“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
-return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
-both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”
-
-“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
-a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
-Manette--”
-
-“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
-delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
-soon be home.”
-
-“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
-being from home, to beg to speak to you.”
-
-There was a blank silence.
-
-“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
-and speak on.”
-
-He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
-easy.
-
-“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
- so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
-on which I am about to touch may not--”
-
-He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
-had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
-
-“Is Lucie the topic?”
-
-“She is.”
-
-“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
-to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”
-
-“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
-Manette!” he said deferentially.
-
-There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
-
-“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”
-
-His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
-originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
-Darnay hesitated.
-
-“Shall I go on, sir?”
-
-Another blank.
-
-“Yes, go on.”
-
-“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
-I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
-the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
-laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
-disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
-her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”
-
-The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
-ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
-and cried:
-
-“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”
-
-His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
-Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
-extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
-so received it, and remained silent.
-
-“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
-moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”
-
-He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
-raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
-overshadowed his face:
-
-“Have you spoken to Lucie?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Nor written?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
-to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
-you.”
-
-He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
-
-“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
-Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
-you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
-belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
-can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
-child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
-with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
-is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
-itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
-now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
-years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
-early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
-you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
-hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
-in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
-you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
-neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
-own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
-loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
-have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”
-
-Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
-little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
-
-“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
-with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
-long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
-now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
-your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
-Heaven is my witness that I love her!”
-
-“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
-before now. I believe it.”
-
-“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
-struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
-that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
-put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
-word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
-should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
-a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
-heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
-now touch this honoured hand.”
-
-He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
-
-“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
-you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
-you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
-in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
-life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
-with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
-come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”
-
-His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
-moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
-his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
-conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
-occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
-
-“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
-you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
-you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”
-
-“None. As yet, none.”
-
-“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
-ascertain that, with my knowledge?”
-
-“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
-might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”
-
-“Do you seek any guidance from me?”
-
-“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
-in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”
-
-“Do you seek any promise from me?”
-
-“I do seek that.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
-understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
-innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
-could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”
-
-“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”
-
-“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
-favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
-Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
-word, to save my life.”
-
-“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
-well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
-delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
-respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
-heart.”
-
-“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
-supplied the rest.
-
-“Is sought by any other suitor?”
-
-“It is what I meant to say.”
-
-Her father considered a little before he answered:
-
-“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
-occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”
-
-“Or both,” said Darnay.
-
-“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
-a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”
-
-“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
-part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
-bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
-may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
-me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
-condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
-require, I will observe immediately.”
-
-“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
-your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
-believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
-between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
-that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
-If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”
-
-The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
-the Doctor spoke:
-
-“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
-new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
-thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
-sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
-than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”
-
-So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
-his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
-hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
-
-“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
-“What was it you said to me?”
-
-He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
-condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
-
-“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
-part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
-not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
-why I am in England.”
-
-“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.
-
-“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
-secret from you.”
-
-“Stop!”
-
-For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
-another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
-
-“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
-should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
-promise?”
-
-“Willingly.
-
-“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
-should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”
-
-It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
-darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
-Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
-reading-chair empty.
-
-“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”
-
-Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
-bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
-his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
-blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”
-
-Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
-his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
-her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
-together for a long time.
-
-She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
-slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
-work, were all as usual.
-
-
-
-
-XI. A Companion Picture
-
-
-“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
-jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”
-
-Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
-and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
-a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
-of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
-arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
-November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
-bring grist to the mill again.
-
-Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
-application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
-through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
-the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
-his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
-intervals for the last six hours.
-
-“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
-his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
-his back.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
-surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
-shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”
-
-“_Do_ you?”
-
-“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”
-
-“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“Do I know her?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
-frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
-me to dinner.”
-
-“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
-posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
-because you are such an insensible dog.”
-
-“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
-sensitive and poetical spirit--”
-
-“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
-any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
-I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”
-
-“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”
-
-“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”
-
-“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.
-
-“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
-inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
-be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
-to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”
-
-“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
-way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
-as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
-moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
-hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
-Sydney!”
-
-“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
-be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
-to me.”
-
-“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
-rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
-to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
-fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”
-
-Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
-
-“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
-myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
-Why do I do it?”
-
-“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.
-
-“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
-get on.”
-
-“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
- answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
-to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”
-
-He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
-
-“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
-delivered in no very soothing tone.
-
-“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
-“Who is the lady?”
-
-“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
-Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
-for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
-half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
-make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
-me in slighting terms.”
-
-“I did?”
-
-“Certainly; and in these chambers.”
-
-Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
-drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
-
-“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
-lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
-delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
-little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
-You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
-think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
-a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
-of mine, who had no ear for music.”
-
-Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
-looking at his friend.
-
-“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
-fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
-please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
-will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
-and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
-but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
-astonished?”
-
-“You approve?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”
-
-“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
-you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
-be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
-ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
-enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
-feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
-inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
-that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
-credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
-say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
-know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
-you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
-you really ought to think about a nurse.”
-
-The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
-big as he was, and four times as offensive.
-
-“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
-I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
-you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
-you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
-understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
-respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
-or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
-kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”
-
-“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.
-
-
-
-
-XII. The Fellow of Delicacy
-
-
-Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
-fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
-to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
-debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
-well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
-at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
-before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
-and Hilary.
-
-As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
-saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
-grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
-plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
-plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
-the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
-consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
-case could be.
-
-Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
-proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
-Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
-himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
-
-Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
-while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
-Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
-on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
-along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
-seen how safe and strong he was.
-
-His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
-knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
-Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
-of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
-in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
-cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
-Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
-bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
-under the clouds were a sum.
-
-“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”
-
-It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
-place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
-in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
-squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
-the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
-the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
-
-The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
-recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
-you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
-of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
-hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
-self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
-
-“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
-business character.
-
-“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
-have come for a private word.”
-
-“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
-to the House afar off.
-
-“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
-desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
-be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
-in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
-visitor dubiously.
-
-“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
-What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
-appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
-my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
-Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
-manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
-“you know there really is so much too much of you!”
-
-“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
-opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
-Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”
-
-Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
-end, and bit the feather of a pen.
-
-“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”
-
-“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
-eligible, you are eligible.”
-
-“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.
-
-“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“And advancing?”
-
-“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
-able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”
-
-“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
-perceptibly crestfallen.
-
-“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
-
-“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”
-
-“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
-shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
-have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”
-
-“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
-having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”
-
-“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
-Stryver.
-
-“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
-a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
-complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
-head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
-been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
-
-“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
-when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
-causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
-lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
-young lady. The young lady goes before all.”
-
-“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
-elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
-present in question is a mincing Fool?”
-
-“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
-reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
-from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
-taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
-not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
-this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
-mind.”
-
-The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
-blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
-Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
-no better state now it was his turn.
-
-“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
-be no mistake about it.”
-
-Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
-hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
-toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
-
-“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
-to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
-bar?”
-
-“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”
-
-“Yes, I do.”
-
-“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”
-
-“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
-this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”
-
-“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
-not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
-business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
-Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
-of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
-spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
-may not be right?”
-
-“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
-parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
-in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
-new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”
-
-“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
-understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
-will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
-gentleman breathing.”
-
-“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.
-
-“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
-painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
-Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
-painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
-know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
-the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
-in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
-little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
-it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
-soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
-with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
-best spared. What do you say?”
-
-“How long would you keep me in town?”
-
-“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
-evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”
-
-“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
-hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
-in to-night. Good morning.”
-
-Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
-concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
-bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
-of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
-always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
-believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
-the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
-
-The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
-gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
-moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
-swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
-forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
-out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”
-
-It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
-great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
-Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”
-
-Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
-Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
-purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
-the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
-altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.
-
-“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
-bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
-Soho.”
-
-“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
-thinking of!”
-
-“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
-conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
-advice.”
-
-“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
-am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
-account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
-us say no more about it.”
-
-“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
-final way; “no matter, no matter.”
-
-“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.
-
-“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
-sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
-not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
-done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
-repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
-aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
-a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
-glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
-for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
-have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
-proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
-certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
-that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
-giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
-will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
-I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
-And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
-and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
-you were right, it never would have done.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
-Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
-showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
-“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
-thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”
-
-Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
-was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy
-
-
-If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
-house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
-and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
-cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
-which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
-pierced by the light within him.
-
-And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
-and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
-he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
-transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
-figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
-of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
-in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
-brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
-into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
-him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
-it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
-neighbourhood.
-
-On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
-that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
-delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
-City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
-for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
-those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
-animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
-they took him to the Doctor's door.
-
-He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
-never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
-embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
-his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
-a change in it.
-
-“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
-is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”
-
-“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
-live no better life?”
-
-“God knows it is a shame!”
-
-“Then why not change it?”
-
-Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
-there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
-answered:
-
-“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
-sink lower, and be worse.”
-
-He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
-table trembled in the silence that followed.
-
-She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
-be so, without looking at her, and said:
-
-“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
-what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”
-
-“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
-it would make me very glad!”
-
-“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”
-
-He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
-
-“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
-one who died young. All my life might have been.”
-
-“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
-sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”
-
-“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
-mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
-it!”
-
-She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
-of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
-been holden.
-
-“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
-love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
-poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
-conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
-bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
-disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
-no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
-be.”
-
-“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
-you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
-confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
-little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
-no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
-
-He shook his head.
-
-“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
-little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
-you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
-been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
-home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
-died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
-I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
-old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
-have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
-sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
-a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
-but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
-
-“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
-
-“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
-undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
-weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
-heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
-its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
-service, idly burning away.”
-
-“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
-than you were before you knew me--”
-
-“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
-anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
-
-“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
-attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
-make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
-good, with you, at all?”
-
-“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
-here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
-the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
-and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
-deplore and pity.”
-
-“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
-all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
-and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
-me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
-was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
-alone, and will be shared by no one?”
-
-“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”
-
-“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
-yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”
-
-“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”
-
-He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
-
-“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
-conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
-again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
-the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
-shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
-to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
-in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”
-
-He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
-sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
-down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
-stood looking back at her.
-
-“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
-hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
-but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
-wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
-shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
-what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
-to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”
-
-“I will, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
-you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
-between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
-it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
-you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
-there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
-embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
-me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
-thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
-ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
-and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
-grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
-happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
-beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
-a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”
-
-He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Honest Tradesman
-
-
-To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
-Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
-variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
-upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
-not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
-westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
-both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
-the sun goes down!
-
-With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
-like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
-watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
-running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
-since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
-women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
-Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
-companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
-to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
-have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
-the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
-purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
-
-Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
-the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
-but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
-
-It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
-few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
-unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
-Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
-unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
-attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
-funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
-funeral, which engendered uproar.
-
-“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
-buryin'.”
-
-“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.
-
-The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
-significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
-his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
-
-“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
-to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
-_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
-let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
-hear?”
-
-“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
-
-“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
-harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
-
-His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
-round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
-there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
-considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
-appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
-surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
-incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
- with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
-
-Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
-always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
-Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
-excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
-
-“What is it, brother? What's it about?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
-
-He asked another man. “Who is it?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
-nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
-greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
-
-At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
-against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
-funeral of one Roger Cly.
-
-“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
-Spi--i--ies!”
-
-“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
-assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”
-
-“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
-out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”
-
-The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
-that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
-suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
-so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
-doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
-for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
-that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
-shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
-other symbolical tears.
-
-These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
-enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
-crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
-They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
-out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
-its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
-much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
-the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
-while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
-exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
-was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
-the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
-coach.
-
-The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
-the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
-remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
-members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
-The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
-hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
-close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
-by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
-popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
-ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
-bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
-that part of the procession in which he walked.
-
-Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
-caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
-at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
-was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
-in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
-accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
-highly to its own satisfaction.
-
-The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
-providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
-genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
-passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
-was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
-the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
-they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
-window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
-and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
-been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
-the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
-coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
-the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
-progress of a mob.
-
-Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
-behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
-The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
-neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
-maturely considering the spot.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
-“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
-was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”
-
-Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
-himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
-station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
-his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
-amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
-man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
-his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
-
-Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
-job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
-usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
-
-“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
-entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
-shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
-for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
-
-The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
-
-“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
-angry apprehension.
-
-“I am saying nothing.”
-
-“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
-You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
-yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
-but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
-ironical dissatisfaction.
-
-“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
-bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
-oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
-
-“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
-another bite.
-
-“Yes, I am.”
-
-“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
-
-“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
-where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”
-
-“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”
-
-“Never you mind.”
-
-“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
-
-“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
-gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
-going out, till you've been long abed.”
-
-He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
-most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
-conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
-to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
-conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
-on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
-he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
-person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
-honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
-professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
-
-“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
-honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
-of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
-tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
-on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
-customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”
-
-Then he began grumbling again:
-
-“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
-know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
-flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
-your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
-and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”
-
-This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
-perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
-all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
-function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
-
-Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
-was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
-obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
-solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
-o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
-took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
-forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
-fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
-in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
-extinguished the light, and went out.
-
-Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
-bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
-followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
-court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
-his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
-door stood ajar all night.
-
-Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
-father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
-walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
-honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
-gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
-the two trudged on together.
-
-Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
-winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
-lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
-that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
-second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
-himself into two.
-
-The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
-under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
-brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
-wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
-the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
-Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
-Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
-defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
-He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
-third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
-there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
-and knees.
-
-It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
-holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
-in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
-and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
-that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
-tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
-creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
-fish.
-
-They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
-appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
-Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
-striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
-with his hair as stiff as his father's.
-
-But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
-only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
-were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
-the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
-screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
-strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
-earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
-it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
-wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
-made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
-
-He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
-it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
-to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
-was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
-upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
-and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
-shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
-was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
-roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
-like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
-too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
-to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
-and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
-incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
-got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
-it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
-stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
-his breast when he fell asleep.
-
-From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
-daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
-family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
-inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
-ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
-bed.
-
-“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
-
-“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.
-
-“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
-and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
-you?”
-
-“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.
-
-“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
-honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
-husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”
-
-“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”
-
-“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
-honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
-when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
-wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
-woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
-no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
-of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”
-
-The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
-the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
-at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
-his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
-down too, and fell asleep again.
-
-There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
-Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
-by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
-he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
-and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
-ostensible calling.
-
-Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
-along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
-from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
-solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
-and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
-improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
-that fine morning.
-
-“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
-at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
-Resurrection-Man?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
-should I know?”
-
-“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.
-
-“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
-hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”
-
-“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.
-
-“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
-branch of Scientific goods.”
-
-“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.
-
-“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
-growed up!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
-“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
-your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
-there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
-for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
-to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
-himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
-yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”
-
-
-
-
-XV. Knitting
-
-
-There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
-Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
-through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
-measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
-of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
-he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
-influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
-vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
-Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
-the dregs of it.
-
-This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
-early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
-on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
-brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
-slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
-not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
-were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
-have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
-and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
-looks.
-
-Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
-was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
-threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
-only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
-wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
-and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
-humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
-
-A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
-observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
-at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
-gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
-towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
-of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
-with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
-a long way off.
-
-Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
-high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
-his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
-mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
-the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
-of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
-flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
-followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
-the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
-
-“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
-an answering chorus of “Good day!”
-
-“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.
-
-Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
-their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
-
-“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
-travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
-Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
-He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
-drink, my wife!”
-
-A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
-mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
-and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
-bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
-Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
-
-Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
-than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
-rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
-He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
-Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
-
-“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.
-
-“Yes, thank you.”
-
-“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
-occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”
-
-Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
-courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
-staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
-sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
-
-No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
-gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
-man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
-him through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
-
-“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
-encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
-Speak, Jacques Five!”
-
-The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
-it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”
-
-“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
-commencement.”
-
-“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
-running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
-chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
-going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
-hanging by the chain--like this.”
-
-Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
-he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
-the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
-during a whole year.
-
-Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
-
-“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
-
-Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
-
-“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
-finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
-'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”
-
-“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.
-
-“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
-confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
-offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
-standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
-My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”
-
-“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
-interrupted. “Go on!”
-
-“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
-is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”
-
-“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
-he is unluckily found. Go on!”
-
-“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
-go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
-village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
-coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
-with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”
-
-With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
-elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
-
-“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
-and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
-spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
-see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
-that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
-going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
-their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
-road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
-Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
-with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
-to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
-be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
-on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”
-
-He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
-vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
-
-“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
-show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
-our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
-village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
-follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
-shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
-consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”
-
-He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
-butt-ends of muskets.
-
-“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
-laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
-but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
-the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
-and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
-darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”
-
-He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
-snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
-opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”
-
-“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
-voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
-village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
-locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
-except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
-my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
-my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
-iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
-hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
-dead man.”
-
-Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
-of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
-countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
-authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
-and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
-his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
-intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
-over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
-standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
-light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
-him.
-
-“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.
-
-“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
-at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
-distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
-of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
-faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
-the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
-whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
-executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
-that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
-that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
-It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”
-
-“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
-“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
-yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
-sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
-hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
-his hand.”
-
-“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
-his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
-strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
-food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
-and struck him blows. You hear?”
-
-“I hear, messieurs.”
-
-“Go on then,” said Defarge.
-
-“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
-countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
-the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
-that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
-father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
-parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
-with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
-which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
-poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
-that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
-says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
-the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
-I am not a scholar.”
-
-“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
-and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
-all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
-nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
-the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
-attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
-when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
-done--why, how old are you?”
-
-“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
-
-“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
-it.”
-
-“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
-on.”
-
-“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
-even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
-night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
-the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
-Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
-the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
-water.”
-
-The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
-and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
-
-“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
-the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
-have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
-of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
-a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
-laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
-from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
-fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
-there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”
-
-They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
-on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
-spectacle.
-
-“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
-water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
-I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
-bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
-across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
-messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”
-
-The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
-three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
-
-“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
-and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
-warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
-walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
-you see me!”
-
-After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
-and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
-door?”
-
-“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
-top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
-
-The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
-the garret.
-
-“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”
-
-“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.
-
-“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.
-
-“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”
-
-The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
-gnawing another finger.
-
-“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
-can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
-safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
-be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”
-
-“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
-undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
-a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
-own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
-Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
-to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
-crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”
-
-There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
-hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
-very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”
-
-“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
-easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
-with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
-on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
-Court; let him see them on Sunday.”
-
-“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
-wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”
-
-“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
-to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
-him to bring it down one day.”
-
-Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
-dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
-pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
-asleep.
-
-Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
-in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
-dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
-new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
-unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
-his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
-he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
-contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
-might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
-into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
-murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
-with it until the play was played out.
-
-Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
-(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
-and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
-madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
-additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
-afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
-see the carriage of the King and Queen.
-
-“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.
-
-“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”
-
-“What do you make, madame?”
-
-“Many things.”
-
-“For instance--”
-
-“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”
-
-The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
-of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
-and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
-fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
-and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
-shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
-ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
-and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
-sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
-intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
-Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
-ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
-terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
-more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
-with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
-hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
-and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
-from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
-pieces.
-
-“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
-patron; “you are a good boy!”
-
-The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
-having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
-
-“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
-these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
-insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”
-
-“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”
-
-“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
-stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
-in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
-tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
-deceive them too much.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
-confirmation.
-
-“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
-it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”
-
-“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
-pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
-pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly yes, madame.”
-
-“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
-set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
-you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”
-
-“It is true, madame.”
-
-“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
-a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
-“now, go home!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI. Still Knitting
-
-
-Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
-bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
-darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
-the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
-the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
-the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
-for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
-scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
-stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
-terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
-the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
-village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
-when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
-faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
-up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
-look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
-stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
-was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
-everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
-scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
-crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
-skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
-started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
-who could find a living there.
-
-Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
-stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
-of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
-night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
-world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
-star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
-the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
-the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
-vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
-
-The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
-in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
-journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
-guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
-examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
-of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
-with, and affectionately embraced.
-
-When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
-and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
-picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
-streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
-
-“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
-
-“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
-commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
-can say, but he knows of one.”
-
-“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
-business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
-man?”
-
-“He is English.”
-
-“So much the better. His name?”
-
-“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
-been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
-correctness.
-
-“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”
-
-“John.”
-
-“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
-“Good. His appearance; is it known?”
-
-“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
-complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
-thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
-sinister.”
-
-“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
-registered to-morrow.”
-
-They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
-and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
-the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
-stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
-her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
-dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
-of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
-handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
-night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
-up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
-condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
-walked up and down through life.
-
-The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
-neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
-by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
-it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
-whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
-
-“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
-money. “There are only the usual odours.”
-
-“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.
-
-“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
-never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
-him. “Oh, the men, the men!”
-
-“But my dear!” began Defarge.
-
-“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
-faint of heart to-night, my dear!”
-
-“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
-breast, “it _is_ a long time.”
-
-“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
-Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”
-
-“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
-Defarge.
-
-“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
-the lightning? Tell me.”
-
-Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
-too.
-
-“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
-swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
-earthquake?”
-
-“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.
-
-“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
-before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
-seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”
-
-She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
-
-“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
-“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
-coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
-is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
-that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
-the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
-more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
-you.”
-
-“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
-a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
-attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
-it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
-it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”
-
-“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
-were another enemy strangled.
-
-“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
-“We shall not see the triumph.”
-
-“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
-strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
-my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
-certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
-would--”
-
-Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
-
-“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
-cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”
-
-“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
-and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
-When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
-time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”
-
-Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
-little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
-out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
-manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
-
-Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
-wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
-now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
-usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
-drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
-and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
-perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
-dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
-out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
-themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
-the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
-thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
-
-A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
-felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
-rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
-
-It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
-customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
-wine-shop.
-
-“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.
-
-“Good day, monsieur.”
-
-She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
-“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
-hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
-thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
-expression! Good day, one and all!”
-
-“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
-mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
-
-Madame complied with a polite air.
-
-“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
-
-It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
-Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
-however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
-visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
-of observing the place in general.
-
-“You knit with great skill, madame.”
-
-“I am accustomed to it.”
-
-“A pretty pattern too!”
-
-“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
-
-“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
-
-“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
-fingers moved nimbly.
-
-“Not for use?”
-
-“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
-madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
-coquetry, “I'll use it!”
-
-It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
-decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
-men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
-catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
-looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
-Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
-one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
-but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
-poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
-unimpeachable.
-
-“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
-and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
-'BARSAD' before you go.”
-
-“You have a husband, madame?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“Children?”
-
-“No children.”
-
-“Business seems bad?”
-
-“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
-
-“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”
-
-“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
-extra something into his name that boded him no good.
-
-“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
-Of course.”
-
-“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
-enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
-think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
-it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
-embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”
-
-The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
-not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
-stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
-Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
-
-“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
-Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
-
-“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
-for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
-price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”
-
-“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
-that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
-susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
-is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
-fellow? Between ourselves.”
-
-“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.
-
-“Is there not?”
-
-“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.
-
-As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
-him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
-Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
-
-“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
-confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
-
-“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
-“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”
-
-“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
-day!”
-
-“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.
-
-“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
-you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
-and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”
-
-“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
-of it.”
-
-Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
-hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
-person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
-have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
-attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
-water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
-out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
-it.
-
-“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
- observed Defarge.
-
-“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
-in its miserable inhabitants.”
-
-“Hah!” muttered Defarge.
-
-“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
- pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
-associations with your name.”
-
-“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.
-
-“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
-had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
-informed of the circumstances?”
-
-“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
-to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
-warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
-
-“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
-from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
-monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
-Tellson and Company--over to England.”
-
-“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.
-
-“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
-Manette and his daughter, in England.”
-
-“Yes?” said Defarge.
-
-“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.
-
-“No,” said Defarge.
-
-“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
-song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
-arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
-they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
-no correspondence.”
-
-“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”
-
-“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
-ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”
-
-“Oh! You know I am English.”
-
-“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
-suppose the man is.”
-
-He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
-of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
-end, he added:
-
-“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
-one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
-poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
-going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
-was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
-Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
-Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”
-
-Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
-effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
-as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
-troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
-spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
-
-Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
-worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
-paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
-in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
-pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
-after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
-husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
-come back.
-
-“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
-as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
-said of Ma'amselle Manette?”
-
-“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
-is probably false. But it may be true.”
-
-“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.
-
-“If it is?” repeated his wife.
-
-“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
-sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”
-
-“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
-“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
-to end him. That is all I know.”
-
-“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
-Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
-“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
-husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
-the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”
-
-“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
-madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
-for their merits; that is enough.”
-
-She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
-took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
-Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
-decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
-disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
-shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
-
-In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
-himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
-to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
-Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
-to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
-her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
-knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
-mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
-jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
-the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
-
-But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
-Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
-among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
-behind.
-
-Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
-great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
-grand woman!”
-
-Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
-the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
-the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
-darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
-pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
-thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
-wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
-Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
-knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
-a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
-counting dropping heads.
-
-
-
-
-XVII. One Night
-
-
-Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
-Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
-under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
-radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
-seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
-
-Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
-for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
-
-“You are happy, my dear father?”
-
-“Quite, my child.”
-
-They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
-was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
-in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
-both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
-time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
-
-“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
-love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
-for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
-if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
-the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
-self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”
-
-Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
-
-In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
-upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
-the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
-its going.
-
-“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
-quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
-ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
-own heart, do you feel quite certain?”
-
-Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
-scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
-added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
-seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
-was--without it.”
-
-“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”
-
-“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
-it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
-fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
-wasted--”
-
-She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
-the word.
-
-“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
-natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
-comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
-how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”
-
-“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
-with you.”
-
-He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
-without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
-
-“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
-Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
-should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
-cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”
-
-It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
-refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
-sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
-afterwards.
-
-“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
-“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
-light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
-of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
-my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
-that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
-could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
-with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
-manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
-and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”
-
-The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
-deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
-the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
-cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
-
-“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
-child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
-been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
-was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
-imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
-was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
-to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
-will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
-
-She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
-
-“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
-me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
-cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
-to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
-the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
-blank.”
-
-“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
-never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
-
-“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
-brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
-the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”
-
-“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”
-
-“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
-have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
-like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
-foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
-leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
-image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
-her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
-But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”
-
-“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”
-
-“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
-sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
-and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
-that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
-have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
-I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
-perplexed distinctions.”
-
-His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
-cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
-
-“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
-coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
-life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
-was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
-cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”
-
-“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
-that was I.”
-
-“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
-they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
-a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
-up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
-imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
-But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
-blessed her.”
-
-“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
-me as fervently to-morrow?”
-
-“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
-for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
-happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
-happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”
-
-He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
-Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
-house.
-
-There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
-be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
-change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
-by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
-apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
-
-Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
-three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
-was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
-little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
-
-So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
-But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
-downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
-beforehand.
-
-All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
-asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
-hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
-shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
-then, leaned over him, and looked at him.
-
-Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
-covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
-mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
-resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
-beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
-
-She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
-she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
-sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
-more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
-of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
-in praying for him.
-
-
-
-
-XVIII. Nine Days
-
-
-The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
-closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
-Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
-Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
-reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
-but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
-have been the bridegroom.
-
-“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
-and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
-pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
-you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
-what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
-on my friend Mr. Charles!”
-
-“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
-therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”
-
-“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”
-
-“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
-on occasion.)
-
-“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
-a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
-anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
-Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
-I couldn't see it.”
-
-“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
-had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
-invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
-speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
-might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”
-
-“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.
-
-“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
-gentleman of that name.
-
-“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
-
-“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
-seems probable, too.”
-
-“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
-were put in your cradle.”
-
-“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
-with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
-pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
-her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
-I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
-opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
-your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
-own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
-fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
-shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
-the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
-your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
-him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
-Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
-old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
-own.”
-
-For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
-well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
-golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
-delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
-
-The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
-Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
-went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
-But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
-shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
-old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
-wind.
-
-He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
-which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
-another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
-eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
-
-Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
-group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
-glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
-dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
-breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
-mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
-mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
-door at parting.
-
-It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
-cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
-enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”
-
-And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
-gone.
-
-The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
-preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
-and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
-the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
-change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
-there, had struck him a poisoned blow.
-
-He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
-expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
-the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
-manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
-room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
-wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
-
-“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
-think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
-I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
-presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
-there, and all will be well.”
-
-It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
-Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
-old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
-into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
-
-“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”
-
-Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
-lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
-He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”
-
-Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
-Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
-when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
-down, and he was very busy.
-
-“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”
-
-The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
-were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.
-
-He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
-throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
-haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
-hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
-shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
-him, and asked what it was.
-
-“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
-ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”
-
-“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”
-
-He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
-his work.
-
-“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
-occupation. Think, dear friend!”
-
-Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
-a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
-a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
-words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
-the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
-he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
-seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
-trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.
-
-Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
-all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
-the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
-conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
-precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
-few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
-on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
-called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
-two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
-addressed to her by the same post.
-
-These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
-the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
-another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
-thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
-
-In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
-being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
-attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
-therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
-first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
-room.
-
-He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
-to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
-attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
-before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
-fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
-window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
-natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
-
-Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
-that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
-after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
-When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
-and said to him:
-
-“Will you go out?”
-
-He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
-looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
-
-“Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
-Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
-with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
-some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
-business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
-
-Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
-at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
-time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
-fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
-bench and to work.
-
-On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
-and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
-returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
-that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
-to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
-at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
-present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
-amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
-enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
-friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
-appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
-him.
-
-When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
-
-“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”
-
-As before, he repeated, “Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
-from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
-meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
-sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
-slipped away to his bench.
-
-The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
-heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
-The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
-seven days, eight days, nine days.
-
-With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
-heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
-well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
-observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
-was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
-his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
-the dusk of the ninth evening.
-
-
-
-
-XIX. An Opinion
-
-
-Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
-tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
-into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
-night.
-
-He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
-done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
-Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
-and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
-at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
-Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
-studious and attentive.
-
-Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
-giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
-not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
-friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
-as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
-which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
-
-It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
-answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
-corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
-How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
-Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
-Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?
-
-Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
-had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
-resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
-He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
-breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
-had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
-Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
-the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
-
-Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
-out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
-toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
-white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
-usual way, and came to breakfast.
-
-So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
-delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
-advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
-place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
-the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
-counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
-he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
-he sought. And that aid was his own.
-
-Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
-Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
-
-“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
-very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
-very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
-so.”
-
-Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
-Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
-at his hands more than once.
-
-“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
-arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
-give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
-for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”
-
-“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
-shock--?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”
-
-Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
-
-“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
-of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
-the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
-shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
-long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
-are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
-which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
-himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
-the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
-be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
-great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
-stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
-there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”
-
-The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”
-
-“Nine days and nights.”
-
-“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
-resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”
-
-“That is the fact.”
-
-“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
-collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
-originally?”
-
-“Once.”
-
-“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
-respects--as he was then?”
-
-“I think in all respects.”
-
-“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”
-
-“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
-It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”
-
-The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
-very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
-the two spoke for a little while.
-
-“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
-considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
-and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
-possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
-intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
-I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
-relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
-be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
-about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
-more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
-if I knew how.
-
-“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
-knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
-able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
-Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
-and teach me how to be a little more useful.”
-
-Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
-Mr. Lorry did not press him.
-
-“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
-“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
-unforeseen by its subject.”
-
-“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
-
-“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
-
-“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
-mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
-himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”
-
-“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
-upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
-him?”
-
-“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
-believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”
-
-“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
-after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
-attack?”
-
-“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
-extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
-was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
-distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
-there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
-would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
-particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
-effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”
-
-“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
-with natural hesitation.
-
-The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
-answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
-
-“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
-
-“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
-great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
-should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
-something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
-and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
-the worst was over.”
-
-“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
-
-“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
-be instructed. I may go on?”
-
-“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
-hand.
-
-“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
-he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
-knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
-he do too much?”
-
-“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
-singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
-part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
-things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
-direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”
-
-“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
-
-“I think I am quite sure of it.”
-
-“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”
-
-“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
-violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
-
-“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
-that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
-disorder?”
-
-“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
-firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
-association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
-extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
-happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
-such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
-believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”
-
-He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
-would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
-confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
-endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
-confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
-really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
-be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
-conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
-last nine days, he knew that he must face it.
-
-“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
-so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
-will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
-case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
-time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
-found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
-him?”
-
-The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
-nervously on the ground.
-
-“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
-his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”
-
-Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
-ground.
-
-“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
-understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
-shook his head, and stopped.
-
-“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
-“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
-of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
-occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
-his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
-the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
-practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
-torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
-quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
-himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
-of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
-find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
-fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
-
-He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
-face.
-
-“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
-who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
-bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
-the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
-with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
-forge?”
-
-There was another silence.
-
-“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
-companion.”
-
-“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
-in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
-sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
-Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
-sake, my dear Manette!”
-
-Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
-
-“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
-it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
-let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
-passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
-three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
-day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
-had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
-explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
-she had no suspicions.
-
-On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
-his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
-carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
-guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
-Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
-which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
-burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
-purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
-shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
-and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
-while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
-traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
-crime.
-
-
-
-
-XX. A Plea
-
-
-When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
-offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
-many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
-in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
-about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
-
-He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
-speaking to him when no one overheard.
-
-“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
-
-“We are already friends, I hope.”
-
-“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
-mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
-friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
-
-Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
-good-fellowship, what he did mean?
-
-“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
-in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
-remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
-usual?”
-
-“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
-you had been drinking.”
-
-“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
-always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
-when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
-preach.”
-
-“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
-to me.”
-
-“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
-away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
-you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
-wish you would forget it.”
-
-“I forgot it long ago.”
-
-“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
-me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
-and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
-
-“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
-for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
-surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
-faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
-Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
-remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”
-
-“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
-you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
-don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
-say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”
-
-“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
-quarrel with _your_ light answer.”
-
-“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
-I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
-incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
-ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”
-
-“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
-
-“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
-any good, and never will.”
-
-“I don't know that you 'never will.'”
-
-“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
-to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
-reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
-permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
-be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
-resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
-furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
-doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
-should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
-dare say, to know that I had it.”
-
-“Will you try?”
-
-“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
-indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”
-
-“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
-
-They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
-afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
-
-When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
-Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
-this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
-problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
-bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
-him as he showed himself.
-
-He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
-wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
-her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
-marked.
-
-“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
-
-“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
-and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
-to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”
-
-“What is it, my Lucie?”
-
-“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
-ask it?”
-
-“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
-
-What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
-cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
-
-“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
-respect than you expressed for him to-night.”
-
-“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
-
-“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”
-
-“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”
-
-“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
-lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
-he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
-wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”
-
-“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
-astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
-of him.”
-
-“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
-scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
-now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
-even magnanimous things.”
-
-She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
-that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
-
-“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
-head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
-we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”
-
-The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
-Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”
-
-He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
-her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
-could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
-of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
-that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
-have parted from his lips for the first time--
-
-“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI. Echoing Footsteps
-
-
-A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
-the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
-her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
-companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
-the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
-years.
-
-At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
-when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
-dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
-afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
-Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
-doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
-her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
-footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
-be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
-eyes, and broke like waves.
-
-That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
-advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
-her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
-mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
-the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
-children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
-her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
-joy to her.
-
-Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
-weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
-their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
-echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
-step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
-Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
-unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
-plane-tree in the garden!
-
-Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
-harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
-pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
-smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
-leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
-tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
-departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
-forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
-
-Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
-echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
-of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
-mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
-murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
-the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
-dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
-the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
-
-The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
-half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
-uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
-done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
-regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
-all true echoes for ages and ages.
-
-No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
-blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
-but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
-delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
-such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
-was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
-and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
-him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”
-
-Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
-forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
-his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
-in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
-life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
-stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
-it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
-state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
-rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
-property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
-but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
-
-These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
-offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
-sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
-Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
-bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
-rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
-Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
-training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
-pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
-declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
-Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
-diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
-to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
-parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
-latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
-it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
-originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
-off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
-
-These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
-amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
-daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
-child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
-and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
-Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
-with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
-waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
-in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
-more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
-many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
-to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
-the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
-as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
-have too much to do?”
-
-But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
-in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
-little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
-as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
-
-On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
-Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
-her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
-all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
-lightning from the same place.
-
-“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
-I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
-business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
-to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
-run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
-to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
-among some of them for sending it to England.”
-
-“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--
-
-“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
-there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
-getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
-without due occasion.”
-
-“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”
-
-“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
-himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
-am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
-Manette?”
-
-“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
-
-“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
-which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
-reason. You are not going out, I hope?”
-
-“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
-Doctor.
-
-“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
-pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
-see.”
-
-“Of course, it has been kept for you.”
-
-“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”
-
-“And sleeping soundly.”
-
-“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
-otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
-all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
-come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
-the echoes about which you have your theory.”
-
-“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”
-
-“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
-are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”
-
-Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
-life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
-footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
-the dark London window.
-
-Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
-heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
-heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
-roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
-struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
-all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
-weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
-
-Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
-agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
-heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
-have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
-powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
-weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
-could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
-force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
-heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
-Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
-with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
-
-As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
-circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
-had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
-already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
-thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
-another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
-
-“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
-One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
-patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”
-
-“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
-knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
-in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
-and a cruel knife.
-
-“Where do you go, my wife?”
-
-“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
-of women, by-and-bye.”
-
-“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
-friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”
-
-With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
-into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
-depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
-beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
-began.
-
-Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
-towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
-the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
-a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
-wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
-
-Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
-cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
-all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
-Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
-the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
-wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
-
-“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
-the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
-cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
-revenge.
-
-Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
-drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
-displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
-weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
-at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
-execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
-furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
-single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
-towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
-by the service of Four fierce hours.
-
-A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
-perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
-the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
-wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
-walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
-
-So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
-draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
-struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
-outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
-made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
-Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
-inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
-exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
-furious dumb-show.
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-“The Records!”
-
-“The secret cells!”
-
-“The instruments of torture!”
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
-the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
-eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
-billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
-threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
-undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
-these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
-hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
-wall.
-
-“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
-there is no one there.”
-
-“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
-Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“The meaning, monsieur?”
-
-“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
-shall strike you dead?”
-
-“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
-
-“Monsieur, it is a cell.”
-
-“Show it me!”
-
-“Pass this way, then.”
-
-Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
-by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
-held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
-been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
-as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
-noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
-its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
-outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
-occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
-air like spray.
-
-Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
-hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
-and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
-waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
-linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
-there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
-but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
-tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
-and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
-to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
-come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
-
-The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
-the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
-in:
-
-“One hundred and five, North Tower!”
-
-There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
-with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
-stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
-across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
-on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
-the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
-
-“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
-Defarge to the turnkey.
-
-The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
-
-“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”
-
-“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
-
-“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
-with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
-wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
-a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
-me!”
-
-He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
-exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
-table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
-
-“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
-among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
- throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
-light higher, you!”
-
-With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
-peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
-and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
-and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
-in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
-into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
-cautious touch.
-
-“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”
-
-“Nothing.”
-
-“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
-them, you!”
-
-The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
-again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
-retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
-of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
-more.
-
-They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
-Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
-upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
-Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
-judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
-blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
-unavenged.
-
-In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
-encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
-decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
-woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
-“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
-remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
-the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
-close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
-be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
-long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
-when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
-upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.
-
-The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
-of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
-Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
-iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
-governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
-where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
-the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
-means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
-swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
-
-The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
-of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
-were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
-voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
-until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
-
-But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
-in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
-fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
-more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
-released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
-overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
-Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
-Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
-drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
-faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
-faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
-lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
-IT!”
-
-Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
-accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
-and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
-hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
-Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
-hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
-and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
-and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
-at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
-stained red.
-
-
-
-
-XXII. The Sea Still Rises
-
-
-Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
-his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
-the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
-Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
-Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
-Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
-themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
-portentously elastic swing with them.
-
-Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
-contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
-knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
-of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
-the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
-hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
-but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
-destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
-before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
-The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
-they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
-the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
-last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.
-
-Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
-to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
-sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
-grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
-already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
-
-“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”
-
-As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
-Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
-murmur came rushing along.
-
-“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”
-
-Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
-around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
- Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
-mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
-sprung to their feet.
-
-“Say then, my husband. What is it?”
-
-“News from the other world!”
-
-“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”
-
-“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
-that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”
-
-“Everybody!” from all throats.
-
-“The news is of him. He is among us!”
-
-“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”
-
-“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
-to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
-found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
-seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
-said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”
-
-Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
-never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
-could have heard the answering cry.
-
-A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
-steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
-was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
-
-“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”
-
-Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
-in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
-The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
-her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
-house, rousing the women.
-
-The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
-from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
-the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
-such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
-children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
-famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
-another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
-Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
-Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
-these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
-alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
-who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
-to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
-breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
-suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
-knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
-and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
-Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
-Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
-him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
-whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
-dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
-belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
-
-Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
-the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
-his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
-of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
-such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
-a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
-wailing children.
-
-No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
-this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
-open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
-and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
-from him in the Hall.
-
-“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
-with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
-Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
-under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
-
-The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
-her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
-others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
-clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
-and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
-expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
-a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
-wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
-to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
-telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
-
-At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
-protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
-too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
-stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
-him!
-
-It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
-had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
-wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
-her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
-had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
-perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
-out! Bring him to the lamp!”
-
-Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
-his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
-and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
-face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
-entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
-action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
-another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
-a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
-of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
-might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
-while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
-screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
-him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
-held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
-mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
-
-Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
-and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
-the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
-people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
-five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
-on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
-breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
-pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
-through the streets.
-
-Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
-wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
-long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
-they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
-embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
-again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
-frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
-slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
-common, afterwards supping at their doors.
-
-Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
-most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
-some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
-cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
-share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
-and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
-hoped.
-
-It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
-knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
-husky tones, while fastening the door:
-
-“At last it is come, my dear!”
-
-“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
-
-Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
-her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
-only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
-Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
-the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
-was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
-Antoine's bosom.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII. Fire Rises
-
-
-There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
-the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
-highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
-poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
-crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
-but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
-them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
-be what he was ordered.
-
-Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
-Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
-shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
-dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
-animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
-out.
-
-Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
-blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
-luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
-nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
-things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
-Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
-be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
-was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
-flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
-its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
-to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
-unaccountable.
-
-But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
-it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
-it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
-of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
-the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
-of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
-the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
-disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
-beautifying features of Monseigneur.
-
-For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
-dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
-to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
-thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
-he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
-and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
-foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
-a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
-without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
-aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
-mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
-highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
-with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
-
-Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
-as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
-could get from a shower of hail.
-
-The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
-and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
-in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
-intelligible:
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?”
-
-“All well, Jacques.”
-
-“Touch then!”
-
-They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
-
-“No dinner?”
-
-“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
-
-“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”
-
-He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
-steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
-it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
-thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
-
-“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
-time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
-
-“To-night?” said the mender of roads.
-
-“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
-
-“Where?”
-
-“Here.”
-
-He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
-one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
-of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
-
-“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
-
-“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
-here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”
-
-“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
-over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
-Well?”
-
-“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
-village.”
-
-“Good. When do you cease to work?”
-
-“At sunset.”
-
-“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
-resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
-wake me?”
-
-“Surely.”
-
-The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
-great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
-was fast asleep directly.
-
-As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
-away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
-by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
-now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
-heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
-his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
-The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
-red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
-beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
-and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
-of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
-footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
-with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
-leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
-sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
-secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
-with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
-Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
-drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
-this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
-looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
-obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
-
-The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
-brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
-of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
-them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
-the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
-to go down into the village, roused him.
-
-“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
-summit of the hill?”
-
-“About.”
-
-“About. Good!”
-
-The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
-according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
-squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
-appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
-When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
-as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
-curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
-together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
-looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
-chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
-alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
-chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
-the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
-to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
-
-The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
-solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
-the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
-flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
-swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
-the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
-stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
-had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
-heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
-branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
-lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
-was black again.
-
-But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
-visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
-Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
-picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
-and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
-Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
-stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
-
-A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
-there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
-spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
-space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
-Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
-impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
-mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
-with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
-sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.
-
-The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
-through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
-the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
-removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
-chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
-timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
-looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
-of lips, “It must burn.”
-
-As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
-village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
-fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
-lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
-every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
-occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
-Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
-that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
-authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
-and that post-horses would roast.
-
-The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
-raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
-infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
-and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
-torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
-two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
-again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
-and contending with the fire.
-
-The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
-scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
-figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
-lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
-dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
-heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
-splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
-birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
-trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
-roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
-destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
-abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.
-
-Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
-bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
-the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
-of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
-days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
-house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
-Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
-with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
-withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
-resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
-of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
-parapet, and crush a man or two below.
-
-Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
-distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
-combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
-ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
-which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
-A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
-the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
-Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
-rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
-and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
-while.
-
-Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
-other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
-the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
-had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
-less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
-functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
-in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
-North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
-The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
-no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
-successfully.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
-In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
-the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
-flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
-the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
-of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
-tissue of the life of her home.
-
-Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
-the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
-feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
-a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
-danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
-in.
-
-Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
-his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
-to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
-this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
-infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
-ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
-boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
-and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
-sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
-
-The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
-mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
-eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
-Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
-out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
-outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
-all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
-“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
-
-The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
-come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
-
-As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
-Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
-haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
-without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
-Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
-to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
-house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
-from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
-storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
-provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
-by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
-from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
-a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
-time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
-was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
-consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
-out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
-through Temple Bar to read.
-
-On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
-Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
-penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
-the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
-hour or so of the time of closing.
-
-“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
-Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”
-
-“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
-disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
-
-“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
-some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
-enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
-upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
-interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
-disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
-House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
-old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
-long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
-myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
-these years, who ought to be?”
-
-“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
-and like one thinking aloud.
-
-“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
-Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
-are a wise counsellor.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
-thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
-my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
-the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
-here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
-and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
-after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
-
-“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
-are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
-France at this time of day!”
-
-“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
-more to the purpose that you say you are.”
-
-“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
-glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
-conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
-of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
-Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
-of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
-might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
-afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
-with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
-getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
-precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
-I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
-bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
-the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
-
-“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
-the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
-Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
-impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
-to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
-whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
-every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
-the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
-as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
-
-“And do you really go to-night?”
-
-“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
-delay.”
-
-“And do you take no one with you?”
-
-“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
-to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
-bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
-Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
-of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
-master.”
-
-“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
-youthfulness.”
-
-“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
-commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
-live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
-
-This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
-Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
-would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
-much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
-was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
-terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
-the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
-omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
-millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
-should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
-years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
-vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
-restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
-and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
-without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
-such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
-in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
-already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
-
-Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
-way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
-to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
-them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
-accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
-of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
-with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
-going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
-word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
-
-The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
-before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
-whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
-that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
-name. The address, turned into English, ran:
-
-“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
-France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
-London, England.”
-
-On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
-express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
-be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
-between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
-suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
-
-“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
-I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
-gentleman is to be found.”
-
-The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
-was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
-held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
-person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
-it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
-and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
-English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
-
-“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
-polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
-knew him.”
-
-“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
-been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
-hay--“some years ago.”
-
-“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
-through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
-Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
-the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
-
-“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
-fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
-
-Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
-the shoulder, and said:
-
-“I know the fellow.”
-
-“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
-times.”
-
-“But I do ask why?”
-
-“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
-hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
-who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
-ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
-that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
-man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
-because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
-why.”
-
-Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
-said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”
-
-“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
-Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
-understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
-tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
-to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
-gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
-“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
-find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
-precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
-of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
-
-With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
-shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
-his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
-in the general departure from the Bank.
-
-“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
-deliver it?”
-
-“I do.”
-
-“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
-addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
-that it has been here some time?”
-
-“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
-
-“From here, at eight.”
-
-“I will come back, to see you off.”
-
-Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
-Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
-letter, and read it. These were its contents:
-
-
-“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
-
-“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
-
-“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
-village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
-brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
-great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
-ground.
-
-“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
-life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
-the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
-emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
-against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
-before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
-imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
-had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
-an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
-
-“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
-emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
-not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
-ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
-
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
-succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
-Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
-
-“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
-nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
-assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
-
-“Your afflicted,
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-
-The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
-by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
-only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
-reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
-considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
-
-He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
-the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
-resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
-conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
-he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
-his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
-mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
-systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
-do it, and that it had never been done.
-
-The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
-always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
-which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
-annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
-following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
-these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
-without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
-the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
-until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
-France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
-confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
-was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
-France that might impeach him for it.
-
-But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
-far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
-relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
-favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
-bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
-on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
-there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
-in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
-the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
-own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
-
-This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
-that he would go to Paris.
-
-Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
-him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
-to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
-him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
-attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
-worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
-could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
-trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
-and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
-him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
-brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
-(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
-which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
-coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
-letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
-justice, honour, and good name.
-
-His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
-
-Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
-struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
-with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
-it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
-gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
-it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
-sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
-saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
-Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
-
-As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
-neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
-Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
-reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
-should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
-the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
-situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
-to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
-discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
-in his course.
-
-He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
-return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
-in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
-nothing of his intention now.
-
-A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
-booted and equipped.
-
-“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
-would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
-perhaps you will take a verbal one?”
-
-“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”
-
-“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
-
-“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
-hand.
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
-
-“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
-
-“Any time mentioned?”
-
-“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
-
-“Any person mentioned?”
-
-“No.”
-
-He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
-and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
-misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
-Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
- Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
-rolled away.
-
-That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
-two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
-he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
-that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
-personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
-their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
-strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
-in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
-
-It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
-reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
-preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
-But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
-resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
-so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
-the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
-scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
-(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
-of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
-streets, with a heavier heart.
-
-The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
-and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
-two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
-midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
-his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
-floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
-
-
-The end of the second book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
-
-
-
-I. In Secret
-
-
-The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
-England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
-ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
-horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
-unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
-but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
-these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
-citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
-of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
-inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
-turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
-hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
-Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
-Death.
-
-A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
-Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
-was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
-at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
-Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
-the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
-the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
-watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
-or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
-felt his freedom more completely gone.
-
-This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
-times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
-riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
-by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
-days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
-a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
-
-Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
-prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
-guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
-to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
-a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
-had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
-
-Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
-red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
-
-“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
-under an escort.”
-
-“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
-dispense with the escort.”
-
-“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
-of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”
-
-“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
-are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”
-
-“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.
-
-“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
-not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”
-
-“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
-and dress yourself, emigrant.”
-
-Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
-patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
-a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
-started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.
-
-The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
-cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
-side of him.
-
-The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
-his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
-wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
-faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
-and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
-change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
-between them and the capital.
-
-They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
-lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
-that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
-shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
-being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
-as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
-his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
-that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
-he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
-of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
-confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
-
-But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
-when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
-himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
-gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
-out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”
-
-He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
-resuming it as his safest place, said:
-
-“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
-will?”
-
-“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
-furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
-aristocrat!”
-
-The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
-bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
-be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”
-
-“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
-as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.
-
-Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
-yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
-the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
-voice heard:
-
-“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
-traitor.”
-
-“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
-is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”
-
-At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
-another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
-horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
-and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
-struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
-more was done.
-
-“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
-postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
-
-“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”
-
-“When passed?”
-
-“On the fourteenth.”
-
-“The day I left England!”
-
-“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
-others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
-condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
-your life was not your own.”
-
-“But there are no such decrees yet?”
-
-“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
-may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”
-
-They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
-then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
-wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
-unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
-lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
-cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
-would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
-circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
-up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
-Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
-into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
-wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
-that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
-the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
-way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
-
-Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
-closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
-
-“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
-in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
-
-Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
-speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
-in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
-imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.
-
-“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
-whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
-
-The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
-eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
-disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
-
-He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
-into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
-gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
-Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
-patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
-into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
-traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
-people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
-to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
-forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
-filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
-their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
-ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
-about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
-and women.
-
-When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
-things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
-who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
-escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
-to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
-turned and rode away without entering the city.
-
-He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
-and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
-drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
-waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
-light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
-the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
-uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
-officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
-
-“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
-paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
-
-“This is the man.”
-
-“Your age, Evremonde?”
-
-“Thirty-seven.”
-
-“Married, Evremonde?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Where married?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
-Force.”
-
-“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
-
-The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
-
-“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
-said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
-
-“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
-to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
-demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
-my right?”
-
-“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
-wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
-sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”
-
-Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
-him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
-them.
-
-“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
-guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
-Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
-
-“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
-Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”
-
-“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”
-
-The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
-with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
-and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”
-
-“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
-truth?”
-
-“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
-looking straight before him.
-
-“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
-sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
-little help?”
-
-“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
-
-“Will you answer me a single question?”
-
-“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”
-
-“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
-communication with the world outside?”
-
-“You will see.”
-
-“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
-presenting my case?”
-
-“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
-in worse prisons, before now.”
-
-“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”
-
-Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
-and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
-there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
-He, therefore, made haste to say:
-
-“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
-than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
-Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
-the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
-prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”
-
-“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
-my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
-I will do nothing for you.”
-
-Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
-was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
-how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
-streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
-their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
-otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
-more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
-going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
-passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
-audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
-family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
-it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
-foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
-Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
-watchfulness had completely isolated him.
-
-That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
-developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
-perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
-yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
-might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
-of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
-the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
-was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
-hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
-rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
-garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
-been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
-called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
-of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
-probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
-they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
-
-Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
-from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
-certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
-his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
-arrived at the prison of La Force.
-
-A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
-presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”
-
-“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
-bloated face.
-
-Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
-with his two fellow-patriots.
-
-“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
-“How many more!”
-
-The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
-replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
-responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
-the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
-conclusion.
-
-The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
-horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
-flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
-are ill cared for!
-
-“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
-if I was not already full to bursting!”
-
-He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
-awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
-fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
-either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
-subordinates.
-
-“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
-emigrant.”
-
-Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
-corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
-until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
-prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
-and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
-most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
-room.
-
-In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
-disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
-unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
-receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
-all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
-
-So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
-gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
-misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
-in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
-of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
-frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
-waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
-that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
-
-It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
-gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
-in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
-coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
-there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
-mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
-likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
-utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
-of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
-
-“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
-gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
-honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
-on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
-happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
-to ask your name and condition?”
-
-Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
-words as suitable as he could find.
-
-“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
-eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”
-
-“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
-so.”
-
-“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
-members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
-but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
-the society--in secret.”
-
-There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
-to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
-which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
-him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
-render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
-the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
-
-The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
-ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
-them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
-solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
-
-“Yours,” said the gaoler.
-
-“Why am I confined alone?”
-
-“How do I know!”
-
-“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”
-
-“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
-present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”
-
-There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
-the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
-walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
-the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
-was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
-a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
-gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
-dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
-with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
-is the first condition of the body after death.”
-
-“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
-paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
-counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
-drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
-shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
-paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
-“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
-them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
-embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
-hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
-through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
-made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
-a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
-his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
-and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
-still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
-knew, in the swell that rose above them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Grindstone
-
-
-Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
-in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
-the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
-a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
-troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
-mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
-metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
-of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
-besides the cook in question.
-
-Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
-sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
-willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
-indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
-house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
-things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
-precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
-of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
-Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
-drinking brandy in its state apartments.
-
-A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
-would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
-For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
-said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
-over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
-Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
-linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
-night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
-Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
-the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
-also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
-provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
-exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
-taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
-
-What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
-lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
-Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
-and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
-Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
-the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
-a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
-prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
-deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
-room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.
-
-He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
-he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
-derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
-building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
-that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
-his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
-was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
-of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
-great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
-open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
-to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
-or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
-objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
-opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
-he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.
-
-From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
-the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
-in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
-nature were going up to Heaven.
-
-“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
-dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
-who are in danger!”
-
-Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
-“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
-irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
-clash again, and all was quiet.
-
-The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
-uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
-awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
-go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
-opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
-amazement.
-
-Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
-that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
-seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
-force and power to it in this one passage of her life.
-
-“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
-matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
-What is it?”
-
-With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
-out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”
-
-“Your husband, Lucie?”
-
-“Charles.”
-
-“What of Charles?”
-
-“Here.
-
-“Here, in Paris?”
-
-“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
-collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
-us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”
-
-The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
-bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
-came pouring into the courtyard.
-
-“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
-don't touch the blind!”
-
-The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
-said, with a cool, bold smile:
-
-“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
-a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
-France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
-touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
-My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
-barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
-knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
-told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
-dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
-terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
-having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
-this fatal place. What prison is he in?”
-
-“La Force!”
-
-“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
-your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
-do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
-I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
-you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
-to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
-instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
-room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
-two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
-delay.”
-
-“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
-nothing else than this. I know you are true.”
-
-The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
-key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
-partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
-looked out with him into the courtyard.
-
-Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
-enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
-people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
-had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
-there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
-
-But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
-
-The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
-men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
-the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
-the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
-False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
-hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
-howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
-sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
-forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
-held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
-blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
-struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
-fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
-the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
-sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
-over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
-upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
-and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
-and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
-sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
-the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
-of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
-as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
-of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
-their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
-given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
-
-All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
-any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
-were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
-explanation in his friend's ashy face.
-
-“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
-the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
-say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
-have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
-may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”
-
-Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
-and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
-
-His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
-confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
-carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
-For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
-the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
-surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
-linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
-cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
-kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
-the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.
-
-He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
-and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
-assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
-her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
-surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
-watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
-
-Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
-clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
-bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
-charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
-the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
-
-Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
-irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
-“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
-sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
-and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”
-
-Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
-Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
-from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
-besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
-to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
-the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
-Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
-the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
-climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
-dainty cushions.
-
-The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
-and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
-alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
-never given, and would never take away.
-
-
-
-
-III. The Shadow
-
-
-One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
-Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
-imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
-the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
-for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
-he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
-man of business.
-
-At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
-the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
-the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
-same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
-most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
-its dangerous workings.
-
-Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
-tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
-that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
-Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
-this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
-he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
-went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
-in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
-of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
-
-To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
-giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
-He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
-considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
-A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
-and heavily the day lagged on with him.
-
-It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
-was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
-do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
-man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
-addressed him by his name.
-
-“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”
-
-He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
-to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
-emphasis, the words:
-
-“Do you know me?”
-
-“I have seen you somewhere.”
-
-“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”
-
-Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
-Manette?”
-
-“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”
-
-“And what says he? What does he send me?”
-
-Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
-words in the Doctor's writing:
-
- “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
- I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
- from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.”
-
-It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
-
-“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
-this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”
-
-“Yes,” returned Defarge.
-
-Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
-way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
-courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
-
-“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
-the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
-
-“It is she,” observed her husband.
-
-“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
-they moved.
-
-“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
-It is for their safety.”
-
-Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
-at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
-The Vengeance.
-
-They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
-ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
-and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
-tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
-delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
-the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
-
- “DEAREST,--Take courage. I am well, and your father has
- influence around me. You cannot answer this.
- Kiss our child for me.”
-
-That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
-it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
-hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
-action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
-to its knitting again.
-
-There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
-the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
-neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
-eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
-
-“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
-risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
-trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
-to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
-may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
-reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
-upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”
-
-Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
-gruff sound of acquiescence.
-
-“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
-propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
-good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
-French.”
-
-The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
-match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
-appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
-whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
-_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
-Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
-
-“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
-first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
-were the finger of Fate.
-
-“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
-daughter, and only child.”
-
-The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
-threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
-kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
-shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
-threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.
-
-“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
-may go.”
-
-But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
-presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
-she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:
-
-“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
-help me to see him if you can?”
-
-“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
-down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
-who is my business here.”
-
-“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
-will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
-afraid of you than of these others.”
-
-Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
-Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
-collected his face into a sterner expression.
-
-“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
-Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
-influence?”
-
-“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
-breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
-much influence around him.”
-
-“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”
-
-“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
-have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
-my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
-of me. As a wife and mother!”
-
-Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
-turning to her friend The Vengeance:
-
-“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
-as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
-known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
-often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
-themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
-sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”
-
-“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.
-
-“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
-again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
-and mother would be much to us now?”
-
-She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
-went last, and closed the door.
-
-“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
-courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
-late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”
-
-“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
-shadow on me and on all my hopes.”
-
-“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
-little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”
-
-But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
-for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Calm in Storm
-
-
-Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
-absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
-kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
-not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
-know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
-ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
-darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
-tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
-the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
-some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
-which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
-scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
-found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
-brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
-to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
-to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
-had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
-years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
-body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
-man was Defarge.
-
-That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
-that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
-to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
-dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
-and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
-a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
-to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
-examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
-the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
-to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
-the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
-the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
-inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
-was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
-Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
-assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
-delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
-often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
-had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
-
-The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
-intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
-saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
-those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
-been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
-thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
-the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
-in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
-of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
-awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
-with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
-carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
-anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
-with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
-
-As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
-his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
-such dread experiences would revive the old danger.
-
-But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
-at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
-felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
-he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
-could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
-“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
-As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
-helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
-of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
-the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
-of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
-clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
-had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
-
-Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
-have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
-in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
-of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
-personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
-of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
-that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
-general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
-messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
-sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
-not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
-plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
-known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.
-
-This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
-sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
-Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
-but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
-time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
-and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
-Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
-that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
-ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
-that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
-trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
-and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
-affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
-rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
-curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
-natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
-couldn't be in better hands.”
-
-But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
-Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
-the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
-era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
-against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
-great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
-against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
-of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
-had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
-alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
-the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
-and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
-fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
-What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
-One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
-and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!
-
-There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
-measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
-time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
-count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
-of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
-unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
-head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
-head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
-widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
-
-And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
-all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
-revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
-revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
-which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
-any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
-with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
-these things became the established order and nature of appointed
-things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
-Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
-the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
-sharp female called La Guillotine.
-
-It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
-it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
-peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
-shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
-and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
-human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
-from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
-believed in where the Cross was denied.
-
-It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
-were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
-Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
-the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
-good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
-dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
-The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
-functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
-namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
-day.
-
-Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
-with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
-end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
-current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
-away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
-months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
-wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
-that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
-violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
-under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
-terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
-that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
-in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
-victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
-appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
-other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
-he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
-a Spirit moving among mortals.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wood-Sawyer
-
-
-One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
-sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
-husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
-tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
-women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
-old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
-daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
-and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
-Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
-bestow, O Guillotine!
-
-If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
-had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
-despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
-the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
-the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
-truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
-will always be.
-
-As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
-had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
-household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
-its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
-as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
-slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
-that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
-return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
-solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
-unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
-outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
-
-She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
-mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
-attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
-and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
-thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
-night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
-repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
-was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
-without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”
-
-They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
-father said to her, on coming home one evening:
-
-“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
-sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
-it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
-in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
-show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
-if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”
-
-“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”
-
-From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
-clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
-When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
-went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
-single day.
-
-It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
-of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
-end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
-her.
-
-“Good day, citizeness.”
-
-“Good day, citizen.”
-
-This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
-established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
-but, was now law for everybody.
-
-“Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“You see me, citizen!”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
-had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
-at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
-bars, peeped through them jocosely.
-
-“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.
-
-Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
-appeared.
-
-“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
-
-“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
-
-“Yes, dearest.”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
-call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
-comes!”
-
-The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
-
-“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
-Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
-Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
-family!”
-
-Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
-impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
-his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
-first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
-
-He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
-him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
-up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
-with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
-not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
-briskly fall to his sawing again.
-
-In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
-spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
-in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
-this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
-Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
-five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
-for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
-see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
-waited out the day, seven days a week.
-
-These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
-father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
-afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
-rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
-decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
-also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
-(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
-
-The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
-surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
-somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
-with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
-and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
-saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
-female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
-was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
-
-But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
-and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
-afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
-prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
-The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
-they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
-than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
-keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
-Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
-together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
-mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
-filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
-apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
-advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
-another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
-in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
-linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
-and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
-all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
-reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
-again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
-of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
-up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
-as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
-innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
-a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
-heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
-warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
-bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
-delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
-the disjointed time.
-
-This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
-bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
-fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
-
-“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
-had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
-
-“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
-frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”
-
-“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
-husband, and the mercies of these people--”
-
-“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
-the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
-kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
-
-“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
-
-“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
-
-“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
-“no.”
-
-A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
- from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
-Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
-
-“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
-and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
-“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-“For to-morrow!”
-
-“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
-to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
-before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
-that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
-Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”
-
-She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
-
-“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
-be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
-protection. I must see Lorry.”
-
-He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
-both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
-away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
-
-“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
-
-The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
-and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
-and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
-better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
-hold his peace.
-
-A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
-the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
-Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
-deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
-National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
-Fraternity, or Death!
-
-Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
-chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
-agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
-he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
-turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
-he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
-
-
-
-
-VI. Triumph
-
-
-The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
-Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
-read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
-standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
-inside there!”
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
-
-So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
-
-When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
-for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
-Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
-hundreds pass away so.
-
-His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
-to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
-list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
-names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
-summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
-guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
-where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
-arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
-creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
-scaffold.
-
-There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
-soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
-were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
-concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
-there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
-refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
-common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
-who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
-insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
-time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
-or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
-brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
-boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
-seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
-disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
-like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
-them.
-
-The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
-vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
-put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
-were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.
-
-His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
-and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
-at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
-usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
-honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
-without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
-spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
-anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
-the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
-knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
-knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
-her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
-he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
-remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
-his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
-in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
-himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
-be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
-the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
-in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
-Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
-wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
-Carmagnole.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
-as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
-which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
-decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
-the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
-
-“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”
-
-The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
-prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
-England?
-
-Undoubtedly it was.
-
-Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
-
-Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
-
-Why not? the President desired to know.
-
-Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
-to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
-his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
-acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
-England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
-
-What proof had he of this?
-
-He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
-Alexandre Manette.
-
-But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
-
-True, but not an English woman.
-
-A citizeness of France?
-
-Yes. By birth.
-
-Her name and family?
-
-“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
-sits there.”
-
-This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
-of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
-the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
-countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
-if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
-
-On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
-according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
-counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
-inch of his road.
-
-The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
-sooner?
-
-He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
-of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
-he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
-He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
-a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
-absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
-testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
-in the eyes of the Republic?
-
-The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
-bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
- until they left off, of their own will.
-
-The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
-that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
-to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
-but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
-the President.
-
-The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
-it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
-and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
-Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
-pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
-enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
-overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
-of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
-had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
-declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
-answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
-called Darnay.
-
-Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
-and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
-proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
-release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
-England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
-their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
-government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
-the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
-circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
-straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
-populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
-Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
-had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
-account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
-they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
-receive them.
-
-At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
-set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
-favour, and the President declared him free.
-
-Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
-sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
-generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
-their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
-these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
-to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
-was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
-at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
-prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
-his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
-exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
-people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
-the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
-streets.
-
-His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
-rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
-together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
-assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
-itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
-him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
-hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
-of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
-Republic!”
-
-The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
-for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
-crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
-Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
-concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
-turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
-which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
-shore.
-
-They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
-taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
-Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
-had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
-even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
-on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
-and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
-he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
-was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
-
-In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
-him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
-prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
-they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
-him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
-had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
-feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
-
-As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
-face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
-together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
-rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
-Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
-crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
-overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
-and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
-them away.
-
-After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
-before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
-breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
-after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
-his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
-lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
-rooms.
-
-“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
-
-“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
-prayed to Him.”
-
-They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
-his arms, he said to her:
-
-“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
-could have done what he has done for me.”
-
-She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
-head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
-had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
-strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
-tremble so. I have saved him.”
-
-
-
-
-VII. A Knock at the Door
-
-
-“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
-often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
-vague but heavy fear was upon her.
-
-All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
-revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
-vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
-many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
-her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
-heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
-The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
-the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
-them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
-his real presence and trembled more.
-
-Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
-woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
-no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
-he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
-them all lean upon him.
-
-Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
-the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
-because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
-had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
-the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
-partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
-citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
-occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
-Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
-night.
-
-It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
-Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
-house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
-of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
-Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
-below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
-himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
-employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
-Darnay.
-
-In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
-harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
-in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
-were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
-shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
-possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
-
-For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
-office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
-basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
-lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
-such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
-association with a French family, might have known as much of their
-language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
-direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
-pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
-was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
-introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
-the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
-of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
-made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
-one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
-
-“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
-“if you are ready, I am.”
-
-Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
-all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
-
-“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
-have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
-these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
-
-“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
- retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”
-
-“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
-Nick's.”
-
-“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
-meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
-and Mischief.”
-
-“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.
-
-“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
-among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
-smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
-streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
-Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
-pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
-May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”
-
-“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.
-
-“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
-that,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
-
-“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
-short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
-Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
-as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
-tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
-after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
-
-“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
-had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
-“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
-way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
-with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
-prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
-
-“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
-
-“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
-glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
-must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
-fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
-you move, Ladybird!”
-
-They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
-child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
-Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
-a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
-sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
-in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
-a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
-a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
-quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
-
-“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
-
-“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
-on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
-least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”
-
-“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
-and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
-
-“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
-
-As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
-
-“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
-
-“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
-shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
-to the door.”
-
-He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
-and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
-men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
-
-“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
-
-“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
-
-“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
-Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”
-
-The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
-to him.
-
-“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”
-
-“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
-know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
-stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
-moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
-the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
-woollen shirt, said:
-
-“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
-
-“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
-
-“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
-
-He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
-after a pause:
-
-“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
-the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
-had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
-
-The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
-
-“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
-
-“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
-more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
-a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
-The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”
-
-“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”
-
-“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
-Antoine here.”
-
-The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
-feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
-
-“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
-the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”
-
-“What other?”
-
-“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
-answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
-
-
-
-
-VIII. A Hand at Cards
-
-
-Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
-way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
-Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
-she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
-both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
-passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
-turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
-was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
-lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
-stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
-Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
-undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
-grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
-
-Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
-for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
-After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
-once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
-took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
-description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
-not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
-opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
-attended by her cavalier.
-
-Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
-playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
-bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
-the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
-resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
-popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
-like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
-the counter, and showed what they wanted.
-
-As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
-corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
-sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
-her hands.
-
-In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
-assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
-likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
-saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
-the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
-evidently English.
-
-What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
-voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
-Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
-ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
-not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
-Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
-account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.
-
-“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
-speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
-English.
-
-“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
-“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
-do I find you here!”
-
-“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
-man, in a furtive, frightened way.
-
-“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
-been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
-
-“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
-want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”
-
-Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
-affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”
-
-“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”
-
-Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
-word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
-through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
-so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
-of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
-language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
-pursuits.
-
-“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
-want?”
-
-“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
-from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
-affection.”
-
-“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
-lips with his own. “Now are you content?”
-
-Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
-
-“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
-surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
-you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
-do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
-am an official.”
-
-“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
-tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
-greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
-such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
-his--”
-
-“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
-the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
-as I am getting on!”
-
-“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
-rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
-loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
-and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
-detain you no longer.”
-
-Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
-culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
-ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
-her money and left her!
-
-He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
-condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
-merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
-all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
-hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
-question:
-
-“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
-or Solomon John?”
-
-The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
-previously uttered a word.
-
-“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
-was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
-calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
-you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
-name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
-was, over the water.”
-
-“No?”
-
-“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
-at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
-yourself, was you called at that time?”
-
-“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
-
-“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
-
-The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
-him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
-elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
-
-“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
-surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
-elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
-myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
-better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
-was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”
-
-Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
-who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
-
-“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
-of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
-an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
-faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
-a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
-the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
-direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
-sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
-conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
-nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
-to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“What purpose?” the spy asked.
-
-“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
-street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
-company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”
-
-“Under a threat?”
-
-“Oh! Did I say that?”
-
-“Then, why should I go there?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”
-
-“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
-
-“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”
-
-Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
-quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
-and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
-made the most of it.
-
-“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
-sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
-
-“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
-But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
-pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
-satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”
-
-“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”
-
-“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
-own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
-at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
-knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
-ready? Come then!”
-
-Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
-remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
-in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
-purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
-contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
-too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
-her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
-heed what she observed.
-
-They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
-Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
-Pross, walked at his side.
-
-Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
-little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
-picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
-into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
-ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
-which he saw a stranger.
-
-“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
-with the name--and with the face.”
-
-“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
-coolly. “Pray sit down.”
-
-As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
-by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
-immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
-look of abhorrence.
-
-“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
-brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
-relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”
-
-Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
-tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
-to return to him!”
-
-“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Just now, if at all.”
-
-“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
-have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
-over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
-messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
-earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
-of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
-might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
-silently attentive.
-
-“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
-Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
-would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”
-
-“Yes; I believe so.”
-
-“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
-to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
-power to prevent this arrest.”
-
-“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
-identified he is with his son-in-law.”
-
-“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
-chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.
-
-“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
-are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
-will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
-carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
-stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
-in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
-Barsad.”
-
-“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
-
-“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
-brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
-
-It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
-glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
-
-“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
-over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
-committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
-so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
-is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
-Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
-That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
-French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
-English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
-card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
-Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
-spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
-the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
-difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
-hand, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
-
-“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
-Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
-hurry.”
-
-He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
-drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
-into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
-poured out and drank another glassful.
-
-“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
-
-It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
-in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
-employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
-there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
-vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
-date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
-France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
-there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
-knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
-Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
-such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
-release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
-familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
-Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
-with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
-talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
-He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
-again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
-guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
-he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
-he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
-his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
-terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
-grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
-that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
-proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
-his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
-terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
-the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
-
-“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
-composure. “Do you play?”
-
-“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
-Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
-put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
-under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
-of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
-considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
-somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
-himself as to make himself one?”
-
-“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
-and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
-
-“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
-hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”
-
-“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
-relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“You think not, sir?”
-
-“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
-
-The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
-ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
-received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
-mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
-failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
-of contemplating cards:
-
-“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
-have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
-fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
-who was he?”
-
-“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
-
-“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
-at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”
-
-“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
-
-“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
-way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
-the face.”
-
-“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.
-
-“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
-glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
-French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”
-
-“Provincial,” said the spy.
-
-“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
-light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
-had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”
-
-“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
-aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
-me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
-distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
-attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
-of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
-multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
-to lay him in his coffin.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
-goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
-to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
-risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
-
-“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
-how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
-lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
-carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
-it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
-it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
-Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
-violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
-crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
-
-Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
-the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
-
-“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
-iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Who took him out of it?”
-
-Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”
-
-“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
-I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
-
-The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
-unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.
-
-“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
-that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
-take in. Me and two more knows it.”
-
-“How do you know it?”
-
-“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
-old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
-I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
-
-Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
-this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
-explain himself.
-
-“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
-ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
-wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
-in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
-throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
-quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”
-
-“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
-Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
-you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
-aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
-the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
-A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
-card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”
-
-“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
-with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
-of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
-he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
-man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
-
-“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
-Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
-that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
-be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
-liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
-guinea.”
-
-The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
-with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
-can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
-Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
-office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
-life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
-I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
-here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
-way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
-me?”
-
-“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”
-
-“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
- said the spy, firmly.
-
-“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
-Conciergerie?”
-
-“I am sometimes.”
-
-“You can be when you choose?”
-
-“I can pass in and out when I choose.”
-
-Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
-upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
-said, rising:
-
-“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
-the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
-into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Game Made
-
-
-While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
-dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
-at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
-manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
-leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
-and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
-questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
-his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
-hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
-infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
-of him.
-
-“What have you been, besides a messenger?”
-
-After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
-Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
-character.”
-
-“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
-at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
-as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
-description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
-get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
-Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
-
-“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
-yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
-would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
-is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
-it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
-to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
-up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
-fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
-yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
-their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
-out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
-Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
-goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
-in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
-a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
-ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
-it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
-and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
-undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
-with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
-much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
-prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
-all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
-once in--even if it wos so.”
-
-“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
-the sight of you.”
-
-“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
-“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”
-
-“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
-further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
-would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
-that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
-be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
-your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
-wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
-you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
-his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
-let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
-for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
-a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
-That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
-arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
-discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
-see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
-without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
-to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
-things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
-fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
-cause when I might have kep' it back.”
-
-“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
-that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
-action--not in words. I want no more words.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
-returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
-arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
-
-He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
-were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
-
-“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
-to him, once.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
-
-“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
-to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
-worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
-weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”
-
-“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
-Tribunal, will not save him.”
-
-“I never said it would.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
-darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
-weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
-and his tears fell.
-
-“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
-voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
-father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
-sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
-however.”
-
-Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
-was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
-that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
-unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
-
-“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
-interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
-him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
-to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
-see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
-evidently understood it.
-
-“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
-only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
-I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
-little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
-You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”
-
-“I am going now, directly.”
-
-“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
-on you. How does she look?”
-
-“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
-
-“Ah!”
-
-It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
-attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
-fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
-passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
-wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
-flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
-and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
-light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
-all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
-sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
-his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
-broken under the weight of his foot.
-
-“I forgot it,” he said.
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
-wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
-the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
-reminded of that expression.
-
-“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
-to him.
-
-“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
-unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
-have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
-my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”
-
-They were both silent.
-
-“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.
-
-“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”
-
-“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
-trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
-
-“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
-may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”
-
-“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
-you when you leave it empty!”
-
-“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
-is nobody to weep for me.”
-
-“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”
-
-“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”
-
-“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”
-
-“Surely, surely.”
-
-“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
-'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
-respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
-regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
-your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
-not?”
-
-“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”
-
-Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
-few moments, said:
-
-“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
-days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
-
-Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
-
-“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
-closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
-nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
-preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
-that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
-and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
-so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
-
-“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
-you are the better for it?”
-
-“I hope so.”
-
-Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
-his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
-are young.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
-age. Enough of me.”
-
-“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”
-
-“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
-habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
-uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”
-
-“Yes, unhappily.”
-
-“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
-place for me. Take my arm, sir.”
-
-Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
-few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
-there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
-again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
-the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
-“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
-her steps.”
-
-It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
-where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
-closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
-
-“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
-man eyed him inquisitively.
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“How goes the Republic?”
-
-“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
-to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
-exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
-
-“Do you often go to see him--”
-
-“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
-citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
-than two pipes. Word of honour!”
-
-As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
-how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
-to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
-
-“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
-English dress?”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
-
-“You speak like a Frenchman.”
-
-“I am an old student here.”
-
-“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
-him. “And take a pipe with you!”
-
-Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
-the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
-of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
-the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
-for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
-terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
-his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
-thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
-
-Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
-counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
-whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”
-
-Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
-
-“For you, citizen?”
-
-“For me.”
-
-“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
-consequences of mixing them?”
-
-“Perfectly.”
-
-Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
-one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
-and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
-glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”
-
-It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
-aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
-negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
-had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
-his road and saw its end.
-
-Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
-youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
-mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
-read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
-streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
-on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
-he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
-whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
-rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
-and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
-and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
-brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
-might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
-went on.
-
-With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
-going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
-surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
-were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
-of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
-profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
-the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
-along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
-material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
-the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
-interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
-short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
-the lighter streets.
-
-Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
-suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
-shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
-people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
-one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
-for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
-and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
-
-“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
-were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
-and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
-heard them always.
-
-The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
-water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
-picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
-of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
-sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
-and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
-Death's dominion.
-
-But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
-of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
-And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
-appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
-sparkled under it.
-
-The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
-friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
-houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
-bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
-longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
-stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”
-
-A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
-glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
-in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
-for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
-ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
-where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
-little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
-himself, went out to the place of trial.
-
-The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
-away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
-Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
-sitting beside her father.
-
-When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
-sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
-tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
-blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
-there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
-Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
-
-Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
-ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
-been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
-first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
-Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
-
-Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
-republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
-after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
-his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
-gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
-cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
-Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
-
-Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
-No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
-murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
-in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
-another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
-retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
-Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
-one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
-privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
-called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
-
-To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
-
-The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
-
-“Openly, President.”
-
-“By whom?”
-
-“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
-
-A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
-Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
-
-“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
-a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
-daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
-and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
-of my child!”
-
-“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
-the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
-to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
-Republic.”
-
-Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
-with warmth resumed.
-
-“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
-herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
-to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
-
-Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
-his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
-closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
-and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
-
-Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
-being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
-his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
-and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
-This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
-
-“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
-best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
-there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
-it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”
-
-It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
-thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
-Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
- wherein she was likewise much commended.
-
-“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
-citizen.”
-
-“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
-bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
-“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
-known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
-knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
-when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
-when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
-the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
-gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
-stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
-that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
-of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
-I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
-the President.”
-
-“Let it be read.”
-
-In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
-lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
-solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
-reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
-never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
-intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
-follows.
-
-
-
-
-X. The Substance of the Shadow
-
-
-“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
-afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
-cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
-it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
-in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
-place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
-and my sorrows are dust.
-
-“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
-difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
-with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
-has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
-noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
-solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
-mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
-truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
-be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
-
-“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
-twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
-part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
-at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
-School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
-fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
-might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
-voice called to the driver to stop.
-
-“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
-and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
-was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
-door and alight before I came up with it.
-
-“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
-conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
-I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
-younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
-and (as far as I could see) face too.
-
-“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
-physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
-has made a rising reputation in Paris?'
-
-“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
-graciously.'
-
-“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
-so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
-probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
-overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'
-
-“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
-were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
-They were armed. I was not.
-
-“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
-the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
-which I am summoned.'
-
-“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
-your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
-our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
-yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
-enter the carriage?'
-
-“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
-entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
-carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
-
-“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
-it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
-place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
-the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
-paper in its hiding-place.
-
- *****
-
-“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
-emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
-Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
-when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
-stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
-a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
-overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
-answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
-the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
-
-“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
-for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
-other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
-with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
-alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
-
-“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
-locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
-relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
-conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
-ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
-lying on a bed.
-
-“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
-past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
-her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
-all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
-scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
-and the letter E.
-
-“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
-for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
-edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
-in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
-her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
-corner caught my sight.
-
-“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
-and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
-wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
-words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
-twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
-to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
-would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
-would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
-order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
-pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
-
-“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'
-
-“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
-younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
-was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'
-
-“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
-
-“'A brother.'
-
-“'I do not address her brother?'
-
-“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'
-
-“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'
-
-“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'
-
-“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
-useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
-to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
-are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
-
-“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
-a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
-the table.
-
- *****
-
-“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
-lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
-poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
-
-“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.
-
-“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
-more.
-
-“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
-efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
-after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
-sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
-in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
-a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
-furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
-old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
-sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
-succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
-counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
-not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
-them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
-in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
-soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
-figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
-regular.
-
-“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
-the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
-before the elder said:
-
-“'There is another patient.'
-
-“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'
-
-“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
-
- *****
-
-“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
-was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
-to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
-there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
-the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
-pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
-and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
-this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
-captivity, as I saw them all that night.
-
-“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
-handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
-He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
-breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
-where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
-that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
-
-“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'
-
-“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
-
-“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
-The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
-before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
-without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
-brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
-ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
-as if he were a fellow-creature.
-
-“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.
-
-“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
-and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'
-
-“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
-answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
-have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
-have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
-vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
-the boy, or about his fate.
-
-“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
-slowly moved to me.
-
-“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
-proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
-we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'
-
-“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
-distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
-
-“I said, 'I have seen her.'
-
-“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
-Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
-have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
-so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
-tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
-The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
-
-“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
-to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
-
-“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
-are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
-work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
-to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
-for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
-plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
-ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
-people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
-and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
-dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
-most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
-race die out!'
-
-“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
-like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
-somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
-dying boy.
-
-“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
-poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
-him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
-been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
-her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
-us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
-hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
-then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
-willing?'
-
-“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
-looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
-opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
-Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
-trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
-
-“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
-harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
-drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
-grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
-may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
-night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
-not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
-could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
-bell, and died on her bosom.'
-
-“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
-tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
-he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
-wound.
-
-“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
-brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
-brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
-it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
-for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
-tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
-that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
-beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
-_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
-in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
-somewhere here?'
-
-“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
-him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
-over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
-
-“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
-dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
-at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
-make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
-that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
-at me with all his skill for his life.'
-
-“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
-a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
-another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
-
-“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
-
-“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
-referred to the brother.
-
-“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
-man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
-
-“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
-moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
-me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
-
-“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
-his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
-answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
-answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
-I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
-I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
-separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
-it.'
-
-“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
-forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
-finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
-down dead.
-
- *****
-
-“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
-in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
-for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
-grave.
-
-“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
-the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
-quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
-of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
-One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
-twelve. Hush!'
-
-“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
-come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
-falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
-by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
-
-“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
-fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
-compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
-her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
-a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
-had of her.
-
-“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
-elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
-
-“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
-
-“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
-at her with some curiosity.
-
-“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
-despair.'
-
-“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
-chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
-subdued voice,
-
-“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
-recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
-and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
-of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
-and not spoken of.'
-
-“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
-
-“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
-
-“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
-are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
-was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
-
-“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
-pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
-resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
-
- *****
-
-“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
-fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
-darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
-failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
-was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
-
-“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
-syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
-asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
-was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
-head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
-
-“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
-brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
-then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
-woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
-the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
-that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
-if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.
-
-“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
-brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
-peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
-of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
-to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
-brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
-for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
-me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
-in the mind of the elder, too.
-
-“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
-answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
-with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
-all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
-
-“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
-away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
-their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
-
-“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
-
-“'She is dead,' said I.
-
-“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
-
-“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
-gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
-the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
-nothing.
-
-“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
-
-“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
-them, and we parted without another word on either side.
-
- *****
-
-“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
-have written with this gaunt hand.
-
-“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
-little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
-considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
-to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
-summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
-circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
-of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
-heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
-profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
-in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
-I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
-compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
-
-“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
-night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
-It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
-completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
-
- *****
-
-“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
-so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
-dreadful.
-
-“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
-life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
-wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
-boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
-on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
-had seen that nobleman very lately.
-
-“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
-conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
-know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
-in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
-share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
-was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
-in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
-Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
-
-“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
-her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
-but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
-inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
-that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
-wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
-
- *****
-
-“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
-yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
-
-“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
-could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
-was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
-husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
-pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
-
-“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
-all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
-inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
-atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
-I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
-jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
-compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
-the sister can be discovered.'
-
-“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
-sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
-bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
-went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
-
-“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
-I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
-trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
-
-“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
-a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
-my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
-into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
-My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
-the gate, standing silent behind him.
-
-“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
-he had a coach in waiting.
-
-“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
-house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
-my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
-corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
-his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
-of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
-Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
-grave.
-
-“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
-brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
-my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
-dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
-now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
-they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
-last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
-night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
-when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
-and to earth.”
-
-A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
-sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
-blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
-and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
-
-Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
-how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
-Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
-time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
-anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
-The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
-sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
-
-And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
-well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
-of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
-the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
-self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
-said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
-physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
-rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
-a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
-orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
-human sympathy.
-
-“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
-smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”
-
-At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
-roar.
-
-Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
-of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
-Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
-
-
-
-
-XI. Dusk
-
-
-The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
-the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
-sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
-she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
-it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
-
-The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
-the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
-emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
-stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
-but love and consolation.
-
-“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
-you would have so much compassion for us!”
-
-There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
-taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
-show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
-him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
-passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
-leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
-
-“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
-shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
-
-They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
-
-“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
-for me. A parting blessing for our child.”
-
-“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
-you.”
-
-“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
-“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
-by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
-will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”
-
-Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
-of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
-
-“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
-to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
-you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
-know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
-her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
-duty. Heaven be with you!”
-
-Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
-and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
-
-“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
-together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
-discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
-near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
-nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
-bless you!”
-
-As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
-with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
-with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
-smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
-lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
-feet.
-
-Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
-Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
-with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
-Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
-flush of pride in it.
-
-“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”
-
-He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
-coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
-beside the driver.
-
-When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
-many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
-the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
-the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
-her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
-
-“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
-better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
-
-“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
-throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
-you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
-save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
-love her, bear to see her so?”
-
-He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
-put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
-
-“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
-
-It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
-with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
-him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
-handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
-
-When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
-and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
-
-“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
-be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
-you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
-
-“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
-strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
-answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
-
-“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
-and short, but try.”
-
-“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
-
-“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
-now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
-great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
-it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
-were not.”
-
-“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
-straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
-write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
-one will be accessible until dark.”
-
-“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
-forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
-speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
-these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”
-
-“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
-this.”
-
-“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
-go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
-our friend or from yourself?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“May you prosper!”
-
-Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
-shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
-
-“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
-
-“Nor have I.”
-
-“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
-him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
-to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
-court.”
-
-“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
-
-Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
-
-“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
-Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
-consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
-thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
-
-“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
-But he will perish; there is no real hope.”
-
-“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.
-
-And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-XII. Darkness
-
-
-Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
-Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
-do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
-these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
-precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
-Let me think it out!”
-
-Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
-turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
-in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
-confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
-should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
-towards Saint Antoine.
-
-Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
-the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
-well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
-its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
-at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
-first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
-had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
-dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
-done with it.
-
-It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
-into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
-stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
-the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
-his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.
-
-There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
-restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
-the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
-Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
-a regular member of the establishment.
-
-As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
-French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
-glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
-to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
-
-He repeated what he had already said.
-
-“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
-eyebrows.
-
-After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
-slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
-accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”
-
-Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
-took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
-meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”
-
-Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
-
-“How?”
-
-“Good evening.”
-
-“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
-drink to the Republic.”
-
-Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
- Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
-pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
- The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
-are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
-to-morrow!”
-
-Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
-forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
-their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
-of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
-disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
-their conversation.
-
-“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
-is great force in that. Why stop?”
-
-“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
-the question is still where?”
-
-“At extermination,” said madame.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
-approved.
-
-“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
-troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
-suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
-the paper was read.”
-
-“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
-“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
-face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”
-
-“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
-“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
-
-“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
-his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
-have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
-I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
-finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
-his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
-if the axe had dropped.
-
-“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.
-
-“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
-
-“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
-depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
-man even now.”
-
-“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
-would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”
-
-“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
-too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
-tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
-doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.
-
-“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
-this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
-night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
-by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge.
-
-“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
-burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
-those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
-that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge again.
-
-“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
-hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
-among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
-by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
-family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
-was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
-was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
-those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
-descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.
-
-“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
-tell me.”
-
-Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
-of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
-her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
-a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
-only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
-the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”
-
-Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
-paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
-a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
-took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
-The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
-be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
-deep.
-
-But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
-prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
-himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
-walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
-until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
-keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
-banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
-mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
-more than five hours gone: where could he be?
-
-Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
-he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
-should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
-In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
-
-He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
-did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
-brought none. Where could he be?
-
-They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
-weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
-the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
-lost.
-
-Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
-time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
-them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
-
-“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”
-
-His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
-straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
-
-“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
-can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
-finish those shoes.”
-
-They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
-
-“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
-work. Give me my work.”
-
-Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
-ground, like a distracted child.
-
-“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
-cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
-not done to-night?”
-
-Lost, utterly lost!
-
-It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
-that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
-soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
-have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
-embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
-time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
-the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
-
-Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
-of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
-daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
-too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
-one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
-
-“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
-to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
-me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
-exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”
-
-“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”
-
-The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
-rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
-they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
-night.
-
-Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
-feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
-carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
-took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
-at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
-exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”
-
-“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
-
-“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
-his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
-enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
-an Englishman?”
-
-Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
-
-“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
-remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
-Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
-and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
-frontier! You see?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
-yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
-up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
-within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
-good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
-think, will be.”
-
-“They are not in danger?”
-
-“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
-Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
-woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
-colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
-confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
-is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
-Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
-name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
-the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
-involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
-both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
-will save them all.”
-
-“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”
-
-“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
-on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
-until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
-more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
-mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
-father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
-inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
-strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”
-
-“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
-the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
-of this distress.”
-
-“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
-as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
-completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
-horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
-afternoon.”
-
-“It shall be done!”
-
-His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
-flame, and was as quick as youth.
-
-“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
-Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
-and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
-beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
-on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
-the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
-her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
-depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
-father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
-
-“I am sure of it.”
-
-“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
-the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
-The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
-
-“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”
-
-“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
-reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
-then for England!”
-
-“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
-hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
-and ardent man at my side.”
-
-“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
-influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
-another.”
-
-“Nothing, Carton.”
-
-“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
-any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
-inevitably be sacrificed.”
-
-“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”
-
-“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”
-
-Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
-put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
-helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
-as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
-where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
-to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
-courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
-the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
-it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
-there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
-her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
-Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. Fifty-two
-
-
-In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
-their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
-to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
-everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
-were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
-the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
-apart.
-
-Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
-whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
-poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
-in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
-and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
-intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
-without distinction.
-
-Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
-flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
-of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
-fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
-that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
-avail him nothing.
-
-Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
-before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
-was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
-and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
-when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
-this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
-a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
-resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
-child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
-selfish thing.
-
-But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
-was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
-road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
-him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
-enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
-by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
-thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
-
-Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
-travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
-of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
-prison lamps should be extinguished.
-
-He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
-of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
-and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
-responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
-already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
-he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
-her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
-had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
-for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
-become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
-to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
-that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
-preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
-he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
-mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
-discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
-besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
-her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
-of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
-reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
-sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
-blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
-dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
-father.
-
-To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
-father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
-he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
-despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
-tending.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
-That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
-attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
-full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
-
-He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
-he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
-
-But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
-forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
-nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
-heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
-he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
-suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
-was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
-sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
-flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
-
-Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
-were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
-meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
-thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
-
-He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
-high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
-stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
-red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
-or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
-directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
-times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
-fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
-to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
-few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
-the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
-
-The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
-numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
-ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
-contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
-him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
-repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
-He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
-himself and for them.
-
-Twelve gone for ever.
-
-He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
-be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
-and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
-before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
-interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
-
-Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
-different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
-he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
-measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
-recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
-turned to walk again.
-
-Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
-
-The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
-as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
-me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
-no time!”
-
-The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
-face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
-features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
-
-There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
-first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
-imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
-hand, and it was his real grasp.
-
-“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
-
-“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
-are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”
-
-“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
-here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
-wife, dear Darnay.”
-
-The prisoner wrung his hand.
-
-“I bring you a request from her.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
-in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
-remember.”
-
-The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
-
-“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
-no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
-wear, and draw on these of mine.”
-
-There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
-Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
-him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
-
-“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
-them. Quick!”
-
-“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
-will only die with me. It is madness.”
-
-“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
-to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
-that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
-it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
-this of mine!”
-
-With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
-that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
-The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
-
-“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
-can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
-not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
-
-“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
-refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
-steady enough to write?”
-
-“It was when you came in.”
-
-“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”
-
-Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
-Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
-
-“Write exactly as I speak.”
-
-“To whom do I address it?”
-
-“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.
-
-“Do I date it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
-his hand in his breast, looked down.
-
-“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
-between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
-You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”
-
-He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
-up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
-something.
-
-“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.
-
-“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”
-
-“No; I am not armed.”
-
-“What is it in your hand?”
-
-“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
-dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
-them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
-words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
-moved down close to the writer's face.
-
-The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
-him vacantly.
-
-“What vapour is that?” he asked.
-
-“Vapour?”
-
-“Something that crossed me?”
-
-“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
-and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
-
-As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
-prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
-with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
-hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
-
-“Hurry, hurry!”
-
-The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
-
-“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
-softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
-If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
-should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
-otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
-unintelligible signs.
-
-Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
-with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
-nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
-seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
-life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
-the ground.
-
-Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
-dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
-his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
-softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.
-
-“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
-insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
-great?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
-hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
-the whole of your bargain.”
-
-“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”
-
-“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
-made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”
-
-“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
-rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
-take me to the coach.”
-
-“You?” said the Spy nervously.
-
-“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
-you brought me in?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
-take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
-happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
-Quick! Call assistance!”
-
-“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
-last moment.
-
-“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
-solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
-moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
-him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
-yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
-last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
-
-The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
-forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
-
-“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
-afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
-Sainte Guillotine?”
-
-“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
-if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
-
-They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
-brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
-
-“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.
-
-“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
-you, and leave me.”
-
-“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”
-
-The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
-listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
-suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
-footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
-made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
-sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
-
-Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
-began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
-finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
-saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
-at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
-within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
-the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
-standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
-but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
-fixedly at the ground.
-
-As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
-were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
-as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
-discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
-woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
-no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
-the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
-
-“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
-poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”
-
-He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”
-
-“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
-likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
-like me?”
-
-The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
-started from his eyes.
-
-“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
-am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
-to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
-Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
-
-As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
-warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
-
-“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”
-
-“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
-
-“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
-hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
-more courage.”
-
-As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
-them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
-fingers, and touched his lips.
-
-“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
-
-“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
-
-“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
-
-“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
-
- *****
-
-The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
-same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
-it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
-
-“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
-
-The papers are handed out, and read.
-
-“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
-
-This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
-pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
-Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
-
-Greatly too much for him.
-
-“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
-
-This is she.
-
-“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”
-
-It is.
-
-“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
-This is she?”
-
-She and no other.
-
-“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
-something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
-English. Which is he?”
-
-He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”
-
-It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
-he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
-under the displeasure of the Republic.
-
-“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
-displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
-Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”
-
-“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”
-
-It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
-is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
-door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
-carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
-carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
-the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
-mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
-an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
-
-“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”
-
-“One can depart, citizen?”
-
-“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”
-
-“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”
-
-These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
-looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
-is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
-
-“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
- asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
-
-“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
-it would rouse suspicion.”
-
-“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
-
-“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”
-
-Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
-dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
-trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
-either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
-stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
-sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
-wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
-anything but stopping.
-
-Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
-farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
-avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
-by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
-no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
-the posting-house.
-
-Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
-the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
-of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
-existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
-plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
-their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
-All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
-far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
-
-At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
-behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
-on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
-animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
-haunches. We are pursued?
-
-“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”
-
-“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
-
-“How many did they say?”
-
-“I do not understand you.”
-
-“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”
-
-“Fifty-two.”
-
-“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
-forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
-handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”
-
-The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
-to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
-by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
-us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
-
-The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
-the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
-us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Knitting Done
-
-
-In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
-Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
-Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
-erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
-conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
-was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
-
-“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
-Republican? Eh?”
-
-“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
-notes, “in France.”
-
-“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
-a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
-fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
-well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
-his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”
-
-“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
-with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
-citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
-
-“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
-his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
-me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
-child must follow the husband and father.”
-
-“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
-eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
-them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
-
-Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
-
-“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
-of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
-there. It is a pretty sight!”
-
-“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
-“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
-last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
-but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
-and then they might escape.”
-
-“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
-have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”
-
-“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
-pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
-regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
-therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
-submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
-
-“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
-“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
-this very day?”
-
-“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
-two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
-without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”
-
-He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
-imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
-never seen.
-
-“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”
-
-“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
-eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
-
-“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
-fellow-Jurymen.”
-
-“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
-Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
-I spare him?”
-
-“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
-“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”
-
-“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
-cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
-trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
-bad witness.”
-
-The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
-protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
-witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
-celestial witness.
-
-“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
-him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
-to-day executed.--You?”
-
-The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
-the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
-of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
-Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
-smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
-barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
-suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
-him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
-for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
-
-“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
-over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
-will give information against these people at my Section.”
-
-The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
-citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
-her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
-hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
-
-Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
-the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
-
-“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
-be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
-justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
-I will go to her.”
-
-“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
-Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
-embraced her.
-
-“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
-lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
-me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
-greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
-
-“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
-alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”
-
-“I shall be there before the commencement.”
-
-“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
-The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
-street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
-
-Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
-might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
-mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
-Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
-of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
-
-There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
-disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
-than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
-strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
-determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
-to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
-instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
-heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
-with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
-opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
-pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
-her.
-
-It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
-his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
-his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
-insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
-her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
-hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
-been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
-she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
-been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
-softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
-sent her there.
-
-Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
-worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
-dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
-bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
-dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
-a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
-walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
-sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
-
-Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
-waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
-the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
-attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
-but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
-it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
-escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
-Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
-and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
-three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
-Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
-passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
-advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
-of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
-
-Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
-pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
-beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
-passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
-their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
-taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
-else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
-
-“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
-was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
-“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
-carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
-suspicion.”
-
-“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
-wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
-
-“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
-Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
-_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”
-
-“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
-hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
-mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
-two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
-crisis?”
-
-“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
-them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
-
-“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
-an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
-more will I do it, never no more!”
-
-“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
-never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
-necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
-
-“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
-poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
-Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
-
-“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
-striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
-is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
-superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”
-
-“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
-most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
-be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
-opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
-hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
-time.”
-
-“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
-Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
-
-“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
-additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
-out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
-earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
-flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
-risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
-conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
-
-And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
-nearer and nearer.
-
-“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
-upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
-understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
-you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
-earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
-Cruncher, let us think!”
-
-Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
-and nearer.
-
-“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
-horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
-that be best?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
-
-“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
-Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
-Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
-
-“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
-the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
-towers?”
-
-“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
-straight, and make that change.”
-
-“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
-“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”
-
-“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
-Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
-and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
-of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
-that may depend on both of us!”
-
-This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
-clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
-immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
-to follow as she had proposed.
-
-The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
-execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
-her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
-streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
-minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
-
-Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
-rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
-in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
-which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
-could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
-dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
-was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
-out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
-
-The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
-Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
-those feet had come to meet that water.
-
-Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
-where is she?”
-
-It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
-and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
-four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
-the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
-
-Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
-and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
-about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
-of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
-way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
-
-“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
-Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
-me. I am an Englishwoman.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
-Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
-hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
-woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
-Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
-that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
-
-“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
-her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
-knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
-wish to see her.”
-
-“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
-depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”
-
-Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
-both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
-the unintelligible words meant.
-
-“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
-moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
-Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”
-
-“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
-was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
-you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”
-
-Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
-detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
-at naught.
-
-“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
-answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
-to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
- This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
-
-“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
-understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
-except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
-part of it.”
-
-Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
-Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
-first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
-
-“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
-English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
-greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
-dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
-
-Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
-between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
-Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
-
-But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
-irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
-Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
-laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
-Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
-of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
-answer the Citizeness Defarge!”
-
-Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
-expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
-either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
-Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
-
-“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
-are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
-you! Let me look.”
-
-“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
-Madame Defarge understood the answer.
-
-“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
-brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.
-
-“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
-uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
-know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
-that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”
-
-“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
-I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
-Madame Defarge.
-
-“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
-not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
-while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
-my darling,” said Miss Pross.
-
-Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
-moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
-It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
-with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
-clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
-that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
-face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
-clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
-
-Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
-waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
-shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
-you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
-
-Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
-what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
-alone--blinded with smoke.
-
-All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
-stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
-whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
-
-In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
-body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
-fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
-what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
-go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
-get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
-out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
-away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
-and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
-
-By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
-gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
-was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
-like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
-gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
-dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
-hundred ways.
-
-In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
-at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
-she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
-it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
-discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
-charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
-escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
-
-“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
-question and by her aspect.
-
-“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”
-
-It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
-not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
-all events she'll see that.” And she did.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
-presently.
-
-Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
-
-“I don't hear it.”
-
-“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
-much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
-
-“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
-and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”
-
-“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
-more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
-Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”
-
-“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
-my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
-and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
-broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
-
-“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
-journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
-opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
-
-And indeed she never did.
-
-
-
-
-XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
-tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
-insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
-are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
-France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
-a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
-conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
-humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
-twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
-rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
-the same fruit according to its kind.
-
-Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
-they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
-the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
-toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
-house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
-No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
-of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
-into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
-the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
-form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
- Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
-
-As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
-a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
-are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
-So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
-in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
-hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
-the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
-then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
-curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
-tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
-
-Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
-things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
-a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
-drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
-heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
-they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
-and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
-he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
-drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
-number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
-
-There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
-and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
-question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
-always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
-horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
-their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
-at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
-mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
-no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
-girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
-against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
-shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
-touch his face, his arms being bound.
-
-On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
-the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
-He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
-sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
-
-“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
-
-“That. At the back there.”
-
-“With his hand in the girl's?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
-Down, Evremonde!”
-
-“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
-
-“And why not, citizen?”
-
-“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
-Let him be at peace.”
-
-But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
-Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
-Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
-
-The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
-populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
-end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
-close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
-to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
-public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
-fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
-
-“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
-Defarge!”
-
-“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
-
-“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”
-
-“Louder,” the woman recommends.
-
-Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
-thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
-it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
-lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
-deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
-enough to find her!
-
-“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
-here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
-she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
-her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”
-
-As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
-begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
-robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
-scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
-think and speak, count One.
-
-The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
-the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
-
-The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
-after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
-still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
-crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
-his face and thanks him.
-
-“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
-naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
-able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
-have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
-Heaven.”
-
-“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
-and mind no other object.”
-
-“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
-it go, if they are rapid.”
-
-“They will be rapid. Fear not!”
-
-The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
-if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
-heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
-and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
-together, and to rest in her bosom.
-
-“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
-am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”
-
-“Tell me what it is.”
-
-“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
-love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
-farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
-nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
-tell her! It is better as it is.”
-
-“Yes, yes: better as it is.”
-
-“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
-thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
-much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
-and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
-live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
-
-“What then, my gentle sister?”
-
-“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
-endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
-“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
-where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”
-
-“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”
-
-“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
-moment come?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
-The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
-a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
-him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
-
-“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me shall never die.”
-
-The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
-on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
-forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
-Twenty-Three.
-
- *****
-
-They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
-peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
-sublime and prophetic.
-
-One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
-at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
-write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
-utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
-
-“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
-long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
-the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
-out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
-rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
-their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
-of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
-birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
-
-“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
-prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
-Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
-aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
-healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
-friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
-tranquilly to his reward.
-
-“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
-their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
-for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
-course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
-that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
-than I was in the souls of both.
-
-“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
-winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
-winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
-light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
-fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
-with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
-look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
-tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
-
-“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
-far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
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-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
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-Title: Pride and Prejudice
-
-Author: Jane Austen
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-Posting Date: August 26, 2008 [EBook #1342]
-Release Date: June, 1998
-Last Updated: March 10, 2018
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-Language: English
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-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Anonymous Volunteers
-
-
-
-
-
-PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
-
-By Jane Austen
-
-
-
-Chapter 1
-
-
-It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession
-of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
-
-However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
-first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds
-of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property
-of some one or other of their daughters.
-
-“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that
-Netherfield Park is let at last?”
-
-Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
-
-“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she
-told me all about it.”
-
-Mr. Bennet made no answer.
-
-“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.
-
-“_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
-
-This was invitation enough.
-
-“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken
-by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came
-down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much
-delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he
-is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to
-be in the house by the end of next week.”
-
-“What is his name?”
-
-“Bingley.”
-
-“Is he married or single?”
-
-“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or
-five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
-
-“How so? How can it affect them?”
-
-“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome! You
-must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”
-
-“Is that his design in settling here?”
-
-“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he
-_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as
-soon as he comes.”
-
-“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send
-them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are
-as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the
-party.”
-
-“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but
-I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five
-grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.”
-
-“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”
-
-“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into
-the neighbourhood.”
-
-“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”
-
-“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would
-be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to
-go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no
-newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to
-visit him if you do not.”
-
-“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very
-glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my
-hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though
-I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.”
-
-“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the
-others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so
-good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference.”
-
-“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he; “they are
-all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of
-quickness than her sisters.”
-
-“Mr. Bennet, how _can_ you abuse your own children in such a way? You
-take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.”
-
-“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They
-are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration
-these last twenty years at least.”
-
-“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”
-
-“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four
-thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”
-
-“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not
-visit them.”
-
-“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them
-all.”
-
-Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
-reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had
-been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind
-was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding,
-little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented,
-she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her
-daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.
-
-
-
-Chapter 2
-
-
-Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He
-had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring
-his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was
-paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following
-manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he
-suddenly addressed her with:
-
-“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
-
-“We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother
-resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”
-
-“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the
-assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him.”
-
-“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces
-of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion
-of her.”
-
-“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that you do
-not depend on her serving you.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain
-herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
-
-“Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little
-compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”
-
-“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she times
-them ill.”
-
-“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully. “When is
-your next ball to be, Lizzy?”
-
-“To-morrow fortnight.”
-
-“Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come back
-till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him,
-for she will not know him herself.”
-
-“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce
-Mr. Bingley to _her_.”
-
-“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him
-myself; how can you be so teasing?”
-
-“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly
-very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a
-fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else will; and after all,
-Mrs. Long and her neices must stand their chance; and, therefore, as
-she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will
-take it on myself.”
-
-The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, “Nonsense,
-nonsense!”
-
-“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he. “Do
-you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on
-them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,
-Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read
-great books and make extracts.”
-
-Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.
-
-“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return to Mr.
-Bingley.”
-
-“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.
-
-“I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me that before? If
-I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called
-on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we
-cannot escape the acquaintance now.”
-
-The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.
-Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy
-was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the
-while.
-
-“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
-persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
-neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a
-good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a
-word about it till now.”
-
-“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and,
-as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.
-
-“What an excellent father you have, girls!” said she, when the door was
-shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;
-or me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so
-pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but
-for your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_
-the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next
-ball.”
-
-“Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
-youngest, I'm the tallest.”
-
-The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would
-return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to
-dinner.
-
-
-
-Chapter 3
-
-
-Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
-daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her
-husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him
-in various ways--with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
-distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at
-last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,
-Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
-delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
-agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
-with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
-dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively
-hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.
-
-“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,”
- said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well
-married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”
-
-In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about
-ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
-admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had
-heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more
-fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper
-window that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.
-
-An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already
-had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
-housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
-was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable
-to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite
-disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
-so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
-he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never
-settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears
-a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get
-a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley
-was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.
-The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the
-day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only
-six with him from London--his five sisters and a cousin. And when
-the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five
-altogether--Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and
-another young man.
-
-Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant
-countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
-with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
-looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention
-of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and
-the report which was in general circulation within five minutes
-after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen
-pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he
-was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great
-admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust
-which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be
-proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all
-his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
-forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared
-with his friend.
-
-Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal
-people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,
-was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving
-one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for
-themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
-only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being
-introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in
-walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.
-His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man
-in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again.
-Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of
-his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his
-having slighted one of her daughters.
-
-Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit
-down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been
-standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr.
-Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend
-to join it.
-
-“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you
-standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better
-dance.”
-
-“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
-particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this
-it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not
-another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to
-stand up with.”
-
-“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. Bingley, “for a
-kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in
-my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see
-uncommonly pretty.”
-
-“_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr.
-Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
-
-“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one
-of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I
-dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”
-
-“Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at
-Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said:
-“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; I am in no
-humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted
-by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her
-smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”
-
-Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
-remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story,
-however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,
-playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.
-
-The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
-Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield
-party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been
-distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as
-her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's
-pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most
-accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
-fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they
-had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good
-spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
-were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With
-a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a
-good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised
-such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on
-the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a
-different story to hear.
-
-“Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a most
-delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.
-Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well
-she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with
-her twice! Only think of _that_, my dear; he actually danced with her
-twice! and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second
-time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand
-up with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody
-can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
-down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and
-asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King,
-and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again,
-and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_--”
-
-“If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband impatiently,
-“he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of
-his partners. Oh that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!”
-
-“Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
-handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw
-anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.
-Hurst's gown--”
-
-Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
-description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch
-of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some
-exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
-
-“But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much by not
-suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at
-all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring
-him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very
-great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my
-dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 4
-
-
-When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in
-her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very
-much she admired him.
-
-“He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible,
-good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much
-ease, with such perfect good breeding!”
-
-“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man ought
-likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.”
-
-“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I
-did not expect such a compliment.”
-
-“Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between
-us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What
-could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help
-seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman
-in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is
-very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a
-stupider person.”
-
-“Dear Lizzy!”
-
-“Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general.
-You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable
-in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your
-life.”
-
-“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak
-what I think.”
-
-“I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_
-good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of
-others! Affectation of candour is common enough--one meets with it
-everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the
-good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing
-of the bad--belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters,
-too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.”
-
-“Certainly not--at first. But they are very pleasing women when you
-converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep
-his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming
-neighbour in her.”
-
-Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at
-the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more
-quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister,
-and with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she
-was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine
-ladies; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the
-power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and
-conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the
-first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
-pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of
-associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect
-entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of
-a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply
-impressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their
-own had been acquired by trade.
-
-Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred
-thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
-estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and
-sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a
-good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those
-who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the
-remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to
-purchase.
-
-His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but,
-though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no
-means unwilling to preside at his table--nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had
-married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider
-his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of
-age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation
-to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for
-half-an-hour--was pleased with the situation and the principal
-rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it
-immediately.
-
-Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of
-great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the
-easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition
-could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he
-never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley
-had the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion.
-In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means
-deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty,
-reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not
-inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley
-was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
-giving offense.
-
-The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
-characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or
-prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive
-to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt
-acquainted with all the room; and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not
-conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a
-collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for
-none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received
-either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,
-but she smiled too much.
-
-Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so--but still they admired
-her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one
-whom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore
-established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized by such
-commendation to think of her as he chose.
-
-
-
-Chapter 5
-
-
-Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets
-were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade
-in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the
-honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty.
-The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a
-disgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town;
-and, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house
-about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge,
-where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and,
-unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all
-the world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him
-supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By
-nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St.
-James's had made him courteous.
-
-Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a
-valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest
-of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was
-Elizabeth's intimate friend.
-
-That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over
-a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly
-brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.
-
-“_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with civil
-self-command to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice.”
-
-“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”
-
-“Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be
-sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed I rather believe he
-_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something
-about Mr. Robinson.”
-
-“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not
-I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton
-assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many
-pretty women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his
-answering immediately to the last question: 'Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet,
-beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.'”
-
-“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed--that does seem as
-if--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”
-
-“_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,” said
-Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,
-is he?--poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_.”
-
-“I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his
-ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite
-a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he
-sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips.”
-
-“Are you quite sure, ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?” said Jane.
-“I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”
-
-“Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he
-could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at
-being spoke to.”
-
-“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much,
-unless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is remarkably
-agreeable.”
-
-“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very
-agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it
-was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had
-heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to
-the ball in a hack chaise.”
-
-“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I
-wish he had danced with Eliza.”
-
-“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with _him_,
-if I were you.”
-
-“I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.”
-
-“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ so much as pride
-often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so
-very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour,
-should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_
-to be proud.”
-
-“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive
-_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.”
-
-“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her
-reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have
-ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human
-nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us
-who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some
-quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different
-things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may
-be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of
-ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
-
-“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with
-his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of
-foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.”
-
-“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs.
-Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle
-directly.”
-
-The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she
-would, and the argument ended only with the visit.
-
-
-
-Chapter 6
-
-
-The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit
-was soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on
-the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was
-found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to,
-a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards
-the two eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest
-pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment
-of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;
-though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
-all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It
-was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her and
-to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference
-which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a
-way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it
-was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane
-united, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
-uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions
-of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
-
-“It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to impose
-on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be
-so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill
-from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and
-it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in
-the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every
-attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all
-_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are
-very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without
-encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show _more_
-affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he
-may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”
-
-“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can
-perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to
-discover it too.”
-
-“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.”
-
-“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal
-it, he must find it out.”
-
-“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane
-meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they
-always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that
-every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should
-therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his
-attention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for
-falling in love as much as she chooses.”
-
-“Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in
-question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined
-to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But
-these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet,
-she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its
-reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four
-dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,
-and has since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite
-enough to make her understand his character.”
-
-“Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might
-only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must
-remember that four evenings have also been spent together--and four
-evenings may do a great deal.”
-
-“Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they
-both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other
-leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.”
-
-“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and
-if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a
-chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a
-twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If
-the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or
-ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the
-least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to
-have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as
-possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your
-life.”
-
-“You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not
-sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”
-
-Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth
-was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some
-interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely
-allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the
-ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no
-sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly
-had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
-uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To
-this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
-detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry
-in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
-pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those
-of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of
-this she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made
-himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough
-to dance with.
-
-He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing
-with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so
-drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were
-assembled.
-
-“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my
-conversation with Colonel Forster?”
-
-“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”
-
-“But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see
-what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by
-being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.”
-
-On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have
-any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such
-a subject to him; which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she
-turned to him and said:
-
-“Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly
-well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at
-Meryton?”
-
-“With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady
-energetic.”
-
-“You are severe on us.”
-
-“It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am going
-to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”
-
-“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me
-to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken
-a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would
-really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of
-hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,
-she added, “Very well, if it must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing
-at Mr. Darcy, “There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of
-course familiar with: 'Keep your breath to cool your porridge'; and I
-shall keep mine to swell my song.”
-
-Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song
-or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that
-she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her
-sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in
-the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always
-impatient for display.
-
-Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her
-application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited
-manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she
-had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with
-much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the
-end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by
-Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who,
-with some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in
-dancing at one end of the room.
-
-Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
-passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too
-much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was
-his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:
-
-“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There
-is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first
-refinements of polished society.”
-
-“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst
-the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance.”
-
-Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he
-continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I doubt
-not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.”
-
-“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”
-
-“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do
-you often dance at St. James's?”
-
-“Never, sir.”
-
-“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”
-
-“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.”
-
-“You have a house in town, I conclude?”
-
-Mr. Darcy bowed.
-
-“I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself--for I am fond
-of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of
-London would agree with Lady Lucas.”
-
-He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed
-to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was
-struck with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to
-her:
-
-“My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow
-me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You
-cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you.”
- And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy who, though
-extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly
-drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William:
-
-“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you
-not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”
-
-Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of
-her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at
-all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.
-
-“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny
-me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the
-amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us
-for one half-hour.”
-
-“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
-
-“He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza,
-we cannot wonder at his complaisance--for who would object to such a
-partner?”
-
-Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
-injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some
-complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:
-
-“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”
-
-“I should imagine not.”
-
-“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings
-in this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.
-I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise--the
-nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would
-I give to hear your strictures on them!”
-
-“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
-agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure
-which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”
-
-Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he
-would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.
-Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:
-
-“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
-
-“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment.
-How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray, when am I to wish you
-joy?”
-
-“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's
-imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love
-to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.”
-
-“Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is
-absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed;
-and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you.”
-
-He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to
-entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her
-that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
-
-
-
-Chapter 7
-
-
-Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
-thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed,
-in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's
-fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply
-the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and
-had left her four thousand pounds.
-
-She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to
-their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in
-London in a respectable line of trade.
-
-The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
-convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted
-thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and
-to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,
-Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;
-their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing
-better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning
-hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news
-the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
-from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with
-news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the
-neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the
-headquarters.
-
-Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most
-interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge
-of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a
-secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr.
-Phillips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a store of
-felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and
-Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation
-to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the
-regimentals of an ensign.
-
-After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.
-Bennet coolly observed:
-
-“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two
-of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but
-I am now convinced.”
-
-Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect
-indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter,
-and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the
-next morning to London.
-
-“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so
-ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly
-of anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however.”
-
-“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.”
-
-“Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”
-
-“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I
-had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must
-so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly
-foolish.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of
-their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will
-not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when
-I liked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my
-heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,
-should want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him; and I thought
-Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in
-his regimentals.”
-
-“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain
-Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first
-came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with
-a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited
-for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was
-eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,
-
-“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well,
-Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”
-
-“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.
-
-“MY DEAR FRIEND,--
-
-“If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me,
-we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives,
-for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a
-quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the
-gentlemen are to dine with the officers.--Yours ever,
-
-“CAROLINE BINGLEY”
-
-“With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of
-_that_.”
-
-“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.”
-
-“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.
-
-“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to
-rain; and then you must stay all night.”
-
-“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that
-they would not offer to send her home.”
-
-“Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton,
-and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”
-
-“I had much rather go in the coach.”
-
-“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are
-wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?”
-
-“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”
-
-“But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother's purpose
-will be answered.”
-
-She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses
-were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her
-mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a
-bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before
-it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was
-delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;
-Jane certainly could not come back.
-
-“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet more than
-once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the
-next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her
-contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield
-brought the following note for Elizabeth:
-
-“MY DEAREST LIZZY,--
-
-“I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be
-imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not
-hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr.
-Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been
-to me--and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the
-matter with me.--Yours, etc.”
-
-“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note
-aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she
-should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of
-Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”
-
-“Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling
-colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is
-all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.”
-
-Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though
-the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking
-was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.
-
-“How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a
-thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get
-there.”
-
-“I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want.”
-
-“Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the
-horses?”
-
-“No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing
-when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.”
-
-“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but every
-impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,
-exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.”
-
-“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia.
-Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off
-together.
-
-“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we may
-see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”
-
-In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one
-of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing
-field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing
-over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last
-within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face
-glowing with the warmth of exercise.
-
-She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
-assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise.
-That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such
-dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and
-Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt
-for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their
-brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there
-was good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr.
-Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the
-brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as
-to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was
-thinking only of his breakfast.
-
-Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss
-Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not
-well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her
-immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving
-alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed
-for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,
-however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them
-together, could attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the
-extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended
-her.
-
-When breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth
-began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and
-solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having
-examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught
-a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;
-advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice
-was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head
-ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were
-the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in
-fact, nothing to do elsewhere.
-
-When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very
-unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only
-wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern
-in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer
-of the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.
-Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to
-Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply
-of clothes.
-
-
-
-Chapter 8
-
-
-At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six
-Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then
-poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the
-much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very
-favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing
-this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how
-shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked
-being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their
-indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored
-Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.
-
-Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could
-regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his
-attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling
-herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the
-others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was
-engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.
-Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to
-eat, drink, and play at cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain
-dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.
-
-When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley
-began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were
-pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;
-she had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the
-same, and added:
-
-“She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent
-walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really
-looked almost wild.”
-
-“She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very
-nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the
-country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!”
-
-“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep
-in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to
-hide it not doing its office.”
-
-“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was
-all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably
-well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite
-escaped my notice.”
-
-“_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am
-inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your_ sister make such
-an exhibition.”
-
-“Certainly not.”
-
-“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,
-above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by
-it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence,
-a most country-town indifference to decorum.”
-
-“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said
-Bingley.
-
-“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, “that
-this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”
-
-“Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.” A
-short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:
-
-“I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very
-sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with
-such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is
-no chance of it.”
-
-“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in
-Meryton.”
-
-“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
-
-“That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.
-
-“If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it
-would not make them one jot less agreeable.”
-
-“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any
-consideration in the world,” replied Darcy.
-
-To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their
-hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of
-their dear friend's vulgar relations.
-
-With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room on
-leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.
-She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till
-late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and
-when it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go
-downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole
-party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting
-them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the
-excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
-below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
-
-“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.”
-
-“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a great
-reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”
-
-“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I am
-_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”
-
-“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and
-I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.”
-
-Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the
-table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her
-others--all that his library afforded.
-
-“And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
-credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more
-than I ever looked into.”
-
-Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those
-in the room.
-
-“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left
-so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at
-Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
-
-“It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many
-generations.”
-
-“And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying
-books.”
-
-“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as
-these.”
-
-“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of
-that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be
-half as delightful as Pemberley.”
-
-“I wish it may.”
-
-“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
-neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a
-finer county in England than Derbyshire.”
-
-“With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.”
-
-“I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”
-
-“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
-Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”
-
-Elizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her very
-little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew
-near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his
-eldest sister, to observe the game.
-
-“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley; “will
-she be as tall as I am?”
-
-“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or
-rather taller.”
-
-“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me
-so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished
-for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”
-
-“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience
-to be so very accomplished as they all are.”
-
-“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”
-
-“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and
-net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure
-I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being
-informed that she was very accomplished.”
-
-“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has
-too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no
-otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very
-far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I
-cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my
-acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”
-
-“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.
-
-“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your
-idea of an accomplished woman.”
-
-“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”
-
-“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really
-esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met
-with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,
-dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides
-all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
-walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word
-will be but half-deserved.”
-
-“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must
-yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by
-extensive reading.”
-
-“I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.
-I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”
-
-“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all
-this?”
-
-“I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and
-application, and elegance, as you describe united.”
-
-Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her
-implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
-answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
-bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all
-conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the
-room.
-
-“Elizabeth Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her,
-“is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the
-other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it
-succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.”
-
-“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
-“there is a meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend
-to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is
-despicable.”
-
-Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
-continue the subject.
-
-Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and
-that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for
-immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could
-be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most
-eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so
-unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled
-that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet
-were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters
-declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
-however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief
-to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every
-attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.
-
-
-
-Chapter 9
-
-
-Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the
-morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the
-inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
-and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
-sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a
-note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her
-own judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and
-its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her
-two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
-
-Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been
-very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was
-not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her
-restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She
-would not listen, therefore, to her daughter's proposal of being carried
-home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think
-it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
-Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all
-attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes
-that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.
-
-“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be
-moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass
-a little longer on your kindness.”
-
-“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am
-sure, will not hear of her removal.”
-
-“You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,
-“that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she
-remains with us.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
-
-“I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do not
-know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers
-a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is
-always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest
-temper I have ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are
-nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a
-charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the
-country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it
-in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.”
-
-“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if I
-should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five
-minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.”
-
-“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth.
-
-“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards her.
-
-“Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly.”
-
-“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen
-through I am afraid is pitiful.”
-
-“That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate
-character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”
-
-“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in
-the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”
-
-“I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you were a
-studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”
-
-“Yes, but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at
-least that advantage.”
-
-“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but a few subjects for
-such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and
-unvarying society.”
-
-“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be
-observed in them for ever.”
-
-“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning
-a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of _that_
-going on in the country as in town.”
-
-Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,
-turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete
-victory over him, continued her triumph.
-
-“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for
-my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal
-pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”
-
-“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it;
-and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their
-advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”
-
-“Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that
-gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing
-at all.”
-
-“Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her
-mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not
-such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town,
-which you must acknowledge to be true.”
-
-“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting
-with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few
-neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.”
-
-Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his
-countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eyes towards
-Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of
-saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if
-Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.
-
-“Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir
-William is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So
-genteel and easy! He has always something to say to everybody. _That_
-is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very
-important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.”
-
-“Did Charlotte dine with you?”
-
-“No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For
-my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work;
-_my_ daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to
-judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls,
-I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think
-Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend.”
-
-“She seems a very pleasant young woman.”
-
-“Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself
-has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast
-of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody
-better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own
-partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother
-Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was
-sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he
-did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses
-on her, and very pretty they were.”
-
-“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There has
-been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first
-discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”
-
-“I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said Darcy.
-
-“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is
-strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I
-am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.”
-
-Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth
-tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to
-speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.
-Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to
-Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was
-unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be
-civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part
-indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and
-soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of
-her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to
-each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the
-youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming
-into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.
-
-Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion
-and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose
-affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high
-animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the
-attention of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners, and her own
-easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very
-equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and
-abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most
-shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this
-sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear:
-
-“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when
-your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of
-the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.”
-
-Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes--it would be much better to
-wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter
-would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,” she
-added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel
-Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned
-instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the
-remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,
-could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of
-all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.
-
-
-
-Chapter 10
-
-
-The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss
-Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who
-continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined
-their party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear.
-Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching
-the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by
-messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and
-Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
-
-Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
-attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual
-commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness
-of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern
-with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was
-exactly in union with her opinion of each.
-
-“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
-
-He made no answer.
-
-“You write uncommonly fast.”
-
-“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
-
-“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a
-year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”
-
-“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.”
-
-“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
-
-“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
-
-“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend
-pens remarkably well.”
-
-“Thank you--but I always mend my own.”
-
-“How can you contrive to write so even?”
-
-He was silent.
-
-“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp;
-and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful
-little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss
-Grantley's.”
-
-“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At
-present I have not room to do them justice.”
-
-“Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
-always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
-
-“They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me
-to determine.”
-
-“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with
-ease, cannot write ill.”
-
-“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her
-brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for
-words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
-
-“My style of writing is very different from yours.”
-
-“Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way
-imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”
-
-“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which
-means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”
-
-“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.”
-
-“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of
-humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an
-indirect boast.”
-
-“And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?”
-
-“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in
-writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
-thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you
-think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with
-quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any
-attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
-Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield
-you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of
-panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very
-laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business
-undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”
-
-“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the
-foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour,
-I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this
-moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless
-precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.”
-
-“I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that
-you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as
-dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were
-mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better
-stay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not
-go--and at another word, might stay a month.”
-
-“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did
-not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much
-more than he did himself.”
-
-“I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting what my
-friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am
-afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means
-intend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a
-circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I
-could.”
-
-“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions
-as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”
-
-“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for
-himself.”
-
-“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine,
-but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to
-stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet,
-that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and
-the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering
-one argument in favour of its propriety.”
-
-“To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit
-with you.”
-
-“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of
-either.”
-
-“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of
-friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make
-one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason
-one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have
-supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
-circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour
-thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,
-where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no
-very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying
-with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”
-
-“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to
-arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to
-appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting
-between the parties?”
-
-“By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars, not
-forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more
-weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure
-you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with
-myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not
-know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in
-particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening,
-when he has nothing to do.”
-
-Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was
-rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly
-resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her
-brother for talking such nonsense.
-
-“I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an argument,
-and want to silence this.”
-
-“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss
-Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very
-thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”
-
-“What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.
-Darcy had much better finish his letter.”
-
-Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
-
-When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth
-for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity
-to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead
-the way which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she
-seated herself.
-
-Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed,
-Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books
-that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed
-on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
-admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her
-because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine,
-however, at last that she drew his notice because there was something
-more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in
-any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked
-him too little to care for his approbation.
-
-After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by
-a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near
-Elizabeth, said to her:
-
-“Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an
-opportunity of dancing a reel?”
-
-She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some
-surprise at her silence.
-
-“Oh!” said she, “I heard you before, but I could not immediately
-determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'
-that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always
-delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of
-their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell
-you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if
-you dare.”
-
-“Indeed I do not dare.”
-
-Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his
-gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her
-manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy
-had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really
-believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
-should be in some danger.
-
-Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great
-anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some
-assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
-
-She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of
-their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
-
-“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery
-the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this
-desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;
-and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after
-officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to
-check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,
-which your lady possesses.”
-
-“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”
-
-“Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed
-in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the
-judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different
-lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not have it taken, for
-what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”
-
-“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their
-colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be
-copied.”
-
-At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and
-Elizabeth herself.
-
-“I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some
-confusion, lest they had been overheard.
-
-“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without
-telling us that you were coming out.”
-
-Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk
-by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness,
-and immediately said:
-
-“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the
-avenue.”
-
-But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,
-laughingly answered:
-
-“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear
-to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a
-fourth. Good-bye.”
-
-She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of
-being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered
-as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.
-
-
-
-Chapter 11
-
-
-When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her
-sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the
-drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many
-professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable
-as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.
-Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an
-entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh
-at their acquaintance with spirit.
-
-But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object;
-Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had
-something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed
-himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also
-made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad;” but diffuseness
-and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and
-attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she
-should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire
-to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from
-the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone
-else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great
-delight.
-
-When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
-card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.
-Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open
-petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and
-the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.
-Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the
-sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;
-and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets
-and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss
-Bennet.
-
-Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.
-Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she
-was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She
-could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her
-question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be
-amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the
-second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant
-it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no
-enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a
-book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not
-an excellent library.”
-
-No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and
-cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing
-her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly
-towards him and said:
-
-“By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at
-Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult
-the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are
-not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a
-pleasure.”
-
-“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he
-chooses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled
-thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send
-round my cards.”
-
-“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were
-carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
-tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
-more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of
-the day.”
-
-“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be
-near so much like a ball.”
-
-Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked
-about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but
-Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In
-the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and,
-turning to Elizabeth, said:
-
-“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a
-turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so
-long in one attitude.”
-
-Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley
-succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked
-up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as
-Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was
-directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that
-he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down
-the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would
-interfere. “What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his
-meaning?”--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him?
-
-“Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be severe
-on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing
-about it.”
-
-Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in
-anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his
-two motives.
-
-“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon
-as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing
-the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret
-affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures
-appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be
-completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better
-as I sit by the fire.”
-
-“Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so
-abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”
-
-“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Elizabeth. “We
-can all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate
-as you are, you must know how it is to be done.”
-
-“But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has
-not yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and presence of
-mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will
-not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a
-subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.”
-
-“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an
-uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would
-be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a
-laugh.”
-
-“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be.
-The wisest and the best of men--nay, the wisest and best of their
-actions--may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in
-life is a joke.”
-
-“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth--“there are such people, but I hope I
-am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good.
-Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own,
-and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely
-what you are without.”
-
-“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study
-of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong
-understanding to ridicule.”
-
-“Such as vanity and pride.”
-
-“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real
-superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”
-
-Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
-
-“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley;
-“and pray what is the result?”
-
-“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it
-himself without disguise.”
-
-“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
-but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
-for. It is, I believe, too little yielding--certainly too little for the
-convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others
-so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings
-are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper
-would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost
-forever.”
-
-“_That_ is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment
-_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I
-really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.”
-
-“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
-evil--a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”
-
-“And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.”
-
-“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand
-them.”
-
-“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
-conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my
-waking Mr. Hurst?”
-
-Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was
-opened; and Darcy, after a few moments' recollection, was not sorry for
-it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.
-
-
-
-Chapter 12
-
-
-In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the
-next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for
-them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on
-her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which
-would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive
-them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at
-least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
-Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage
-before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley
-and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them
-very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively
-resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the
-contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,
-she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at
-length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield
-that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.
-
-The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was
-said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work
-on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was
-then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike
-of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.
-
-The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so
-soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be
-safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where
-she felt herself to be right.
-
-To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at
-Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss
-Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to himself.
-He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration
-should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope
-of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been
-suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight
-in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke
-ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were
-at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most
-conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.
-
-On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost
-all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last
-very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,
-after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her
-to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most
-tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of
-the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.
-
-They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet
-wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much
-trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their
-father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really
-glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The
-evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of
-its animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and
-Elizabeth.
-
-They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human
-nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of
-threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information
-for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said
-in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers
-had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it
-had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.
-
-
-
-Chapter 13
-
-
-“I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at
-breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,
-because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.”
-
-“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure,
-unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in--and I hope _my_ dinners
-are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.”
-
-“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr.
-Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr.
-Bingley. But--good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be
-got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell--I must speak to Hill this
-moment.”
-
-“It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I
-never saw in the whole course of my life.”
-
-This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being
-eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at once.
-
-After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:
-
-“About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago
-I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring
-early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead,
-may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.”
-
-“Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.
-Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing
-in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own
-children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago
-to do something or other about it.”
-
-Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They
-had often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which
-Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail
-bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of
-five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
-
-“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and
-nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.
-But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little
-softened by his manner of expressing himself.”
-
-“No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of
-him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false
-friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did
-before him?”
-
-“Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that
-head, as you will hear.”
-
-“Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.
-
-“Dear Sir,--
-
-“The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured
-father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the
-misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but
-for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might
-seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone
-with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.--'There, Mrs.
-Bennet.'--My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having
-received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be
-distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de
-Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has
-preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be
-my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her
-ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which
-are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I
-feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in
-all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I
-flatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and
-that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate
-will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the
-offered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the
-means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for
-it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible
-amends--but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to
-receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting
-on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and
-shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'ennight
-following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine
-is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided
-that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.--I
-remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and
-daughters, your well-wisher and friend,
-
-“WILLIAM COLLINS”
-
-“At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,”
- said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most
-conscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will
-prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so
-indulgent as to let him come to us again.”
-
-“There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however, and if
-he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to
-discourage him.”
-
-“Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can mean
-to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his
-credit.”
-
-Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady
-Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying
-his parishioners whenever it were required.
-
-“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him
-out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he
-mean by apologising for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he
-would help it if he could.--Could he be a sensible man, sir?”
-
-“No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the
-reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his
-letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.”
-
-“In point of composition,” said Mary, “the letter does not seem
-defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I
-think it is well expressed.”
-
-To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any
-degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should
-come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had
-received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for
-their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will,
-and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which
-astonished her husband and daughters.
-
-Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great
-politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the
-ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in
-need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a
-tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and
-stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated
-before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of
-daughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this
-instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did
-not doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This
-gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.
-Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most readily.
-
-“You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may
-prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so
-oddly.”
-
-“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”
-
-“Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you
-must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things
-I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates
-will go when once they come to be entailed.”
-
-“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and
-could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing
-forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come
-prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps,
-when we are better acquainted--”
-
-He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each
-other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The
-hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised;
-and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet's
-heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his
-own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and
-he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its
-cooking was owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who
-assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a
-good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He
-begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared
-herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a
-quarter of an hour.
-
-
-
-Chapter 14
-
-
-During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants
-were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his
-guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to
-shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady
-Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for
-his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen
-better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him
-to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect
-he protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in
-a person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself
-experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to
-approve of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of
-preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,
-and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of
-quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many
-people he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her.
-She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she
-made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
-neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or
-two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to
-marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had
-once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly
-approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed
-to suggest some herself--some shelves in the closet up stairs.”
-
-“That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet, “and
-I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies
-in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?”
-
-“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane
-from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence.”
-
-“I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”
-
-“She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
-extensive property.”
-
-“Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than
-many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?”
-
-“She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says
-that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the
-handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks
-the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly
-constitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many
-accomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am
-informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still
-resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends
-to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”
-
-“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at
-court.”
-
-“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;
-and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the
-British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased
-with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to
-offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable
-to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that
-her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most
-elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by
-her. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and
-it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to
-pay.”
-
-“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for you
-that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask
-whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the
-moment, or are the result of previous study?”
-
-“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I
-sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant
-compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to
-give them as unstudied an air as possible.”
-
-Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd
-as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,
-maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,
-and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner
-in his pleasure.
-
-By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad
-to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over,
-glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily
-assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything
-announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and
-begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at
-him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some
-deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the
-volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three
-pages, she interrupted him with:
-
-“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away
-Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me
-so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more
-about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.”
-
-Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.
-Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:
-
-“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books
-of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes
-me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to
-them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.”
-
-Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at
-backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted
-very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements.
-Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's
-interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would
-resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his
-young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any
-affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared
-for backgammon.
-
-
-
-Chapter 15
-
-
-Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had
-been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part
-of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and
-miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he
-had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful
-acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had
-given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a
-good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in
-retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected
-prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de
-Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which
-he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,
-mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a
-clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of
-pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
-
-Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to
-marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had
-a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found
-them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.
-This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's
-estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and
-suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own
-part.
-
-His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet's lovely face
-confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what
-was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled
-choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a
-quarter of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a
-conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally
-to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at
-Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
-encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. “As to
-her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could
-not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession; her
-_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her
-to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.”
-
-Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon
-done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally
-next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.
-
-Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have
-two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of
-the day before was now high in her good graces.
-
-Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister
-except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,
-at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,
-and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed
-him after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with
-one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.
-Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such
-doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
-always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told
-Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the
-house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,
-was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their
-walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker
-than a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go.
-
-In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his
-cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of
-the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were
-immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and
-nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in
-a shop window, could recall them.
-
-But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom
-they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking
-with another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was
-the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came
-to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the
-stranger's air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia,
-determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under
-pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately
-had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had
-reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated
-permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with
-him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a
-commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the
-young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming.
-His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of
-beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address.
-The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness
-of conversation--a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and
-unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together
-very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy
-and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the
-ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and
-began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and
-Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to
-Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated
-it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes
-on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the
-stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they
-looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.
-Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham,
-after a few moments, touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just
-deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to
-imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.
-
-In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what
-passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
-
-Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of
-Mr. Phillip's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's
-pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of
-Mrs. Phillips's throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the
-invitation.
-
-Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest,
-from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was
-eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as
-their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing
-about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the
-street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to
-Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility
-was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She
-received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with
-as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous
-acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself,
-however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who
-introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite awed by such an
-excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon
-put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom,
-however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that
-Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a
-lieutenant's commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the
-last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr.
-Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the
-occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the
-officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid,
-disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses
-the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.
-Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn
-would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips
-protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
-tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such
-delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
-Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured
-with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.
-
-As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass
-between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either
-or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain
-such behaviour than her sister.
-
-Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring
-Mrs. Phillips's manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady
-Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman;
-for she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even
-pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although
-utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be
-attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so
-much attention in the whole course of his life.
-
-
-
-Chapter 16
-
-
-As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their
-aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for
-a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach
-conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and
-the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,
-that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in
-the house.
-
-When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
-Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much
-struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he
-might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast
-parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much
-gratification; but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what
-Rosings was, and who was its proprietor--when she had listened to the
-description of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found
-that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
-the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison
-with the housekeeper's room.
-
-In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,
-with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and
-the improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the
-gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive
-listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she
-heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as
-soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,
-and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine
-their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the
-interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however.
-The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,
-Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking
-of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration.
-The officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,
-gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but
-Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and
-walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips,
-breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.
-
-Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was
-turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated
-himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into
-conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel
-that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered
-interesting by the skill of the speaker.
-
-With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the
-officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young
-ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind
-listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly
-supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he
-had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.
-
-“I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be glad
-to improve myself, for in my situation in life--” Mrs. Phillips was very
-glad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.
-
-Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
-received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there
-seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most
-determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,
-she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets
-and exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular.
-Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore
-at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear
-him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be
-told--the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not
-even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly
-relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far
-Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in
-a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.
-
-“About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject
-drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I
-understand.”
-
-“Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A clear
-ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more
-capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for
-I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my
-infancy.”
-
-Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
-
-“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after
-seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting
-yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”
-
-“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I have
-spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very
-disagreeable.”
-
-“I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being
-agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him
-too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_
-to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general
-astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly
-anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.”
-
-“Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in
-the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in
-Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find
-him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”
-
-“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short
-interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond
-their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The
-world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his
-high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”
-
-“I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
-ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.
-
-“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is
-likely to be in this country much longer.”
-
-“I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I
-was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will
-not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”
-
-“Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_
-wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,
-and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for
-avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense
-of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he
-is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men
-that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never
-be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by
-a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
-scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and
-everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the
-memory of his father.”
-
-Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with
-all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.
-
-Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
-neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that
-he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very
-intelligible gallantry.
-
-“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added,
-“which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be
-a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me
-further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great
-attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them.
-Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and
-my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.
-A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have
-now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I
-was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in
-possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we
-were speaking of just now.”
-
-“Indeed!”
-
-“Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best
-living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.
-I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,
-and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given
-elsewhere.”
-
-“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How could his
-will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?”
-
-“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to
-give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the
-intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely
-conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim
-to it by extravagance, imprudence--in short anything or nothing. Certain
-it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was
-of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no
-less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
-anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and
-I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can
-recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort
-of men, and that he hates me.”
-
-“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”
-
-“Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I
-can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.”
-
-Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than
-ever as he expressed them.
-
-“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can
-have induced him to behave so cruelly?”
-
-“A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but
-attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me
-less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon
-attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had
-not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort
-of preference which was often given me.”
-
-“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked
-him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be
-despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of
-descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as
-this.”
-
-After a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_
-remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of
-his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition
-must be dreadful.”
-
-“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “I can hardly
-be just to him.”
-
-Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To
-treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his
-father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like _you_, whose very
-countenance may vouch for your being amiable”--but she contented herself
-with, “and one, too, who had probably been his companion from childhood,
-connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!”
-
-“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest
-part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,
-sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_
-father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Phillips,
-appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up everything to be of
-use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the
-Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most
-intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to
-be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendence,
-and when, immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
-voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to
-be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his affection to myself.”
-
-“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that the very
-pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If from no better
-motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest--for
-dishonesty I must call it.”
-
-“It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions may
-be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has
-connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are
-none of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger
-impulses even than pride.”
-
-“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”
-
-“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money
-freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the
-poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride--for he is very proud of what
-his father was--have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family,
-to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the
-Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,
-which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and
-careful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up
-as the most attentive and best of brothers.”
-
-“What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”
-
-He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to
-speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother--very, very
-proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond
-of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is
-nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen,
-and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her
-home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her
-education.”
-
-After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not
-help reverting once more to the first, and saying:
-
-“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,
-who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,
-be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you
-know Mr. Bingley?”
-
-“Not at all.”
-
-“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.
-Darcy is.”
-
-“Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not
-want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth
-his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is
-a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His
-pride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just,
-sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable--allowing something
-for fortune and figure.”
-
-The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round
-the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin
-Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to his success were
-made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every
-point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon,
-he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least
-importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged
-that she would not make herself uneasy.
-
-“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a
-card-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I
-am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There
-are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady
-Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
-little matters.”
-
-Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for
-a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation
-was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.
-
-“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him
-a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her
-notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”
-
-“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy
-were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.”
-
-“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's
-connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
-yesterday.”
-
-“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is
-believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”
-
-This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss
-Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her
-affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already
-self-destined for another.
-
-“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her
-daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,
-I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his
-patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.”
-
-“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have
-not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked
-her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the
-reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe
-she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
-her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride for her
-nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an
-understanding of the first class.”
-
-Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and
-they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper
-put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
-Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise
-of Mrs. Phillips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to
-everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done
-gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could
-think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all
-the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name
-as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia
-talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
-fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and
-Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses
-at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing
-that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage
-before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.
-
-
-
-Chapter 17
-
-
-Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr.
-Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she
-knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
-Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the
-veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The
-possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to
-interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be
-done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each,
-and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be
-otherwise explained.
-
-“They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some way
-or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps
-misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to
-conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,
-without actual blame on either side.”
-
-“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on
-behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the
-business? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of
-somebody.”
-
-“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my
-opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light
-it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such
-a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is
-impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his
-character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so
-excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.”
-
-“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than
-that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me
-last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it
-be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his
-looks.”
-
-“It is difficult indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to
-think.”
-
-“I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”
-
-But Jane could think with certainty on only one point--that Mr. Bingley,
-if he _had_ been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair
-became public.
-
-The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this
-conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had
-been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal
-invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed
-for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their
-dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly
-asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To
-the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet
-as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to
-the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an
-activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if
-eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.
-
-The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every
-female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in
-compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered
-by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a
-ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the
-society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and
-Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.
-Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy's look
-and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended
-less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they
-each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham,
-he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball
-was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she
-had no disinclination for it.
-
-“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough--I
-think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.
-Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those
-who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for
-everybody.”
-
-Elizabeth's spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did
-not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking
-him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if
-he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's
-amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no
-scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke
-either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to
-dance.
-
-“I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball
-of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people,
-can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing
-myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair
-cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of
-soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,
-a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right
-cause, and not to any disrespect for her.”
-
-Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being
-engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins
-instead! her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help
-for it, however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own were perforce
-delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as
-good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his
-gallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first
-struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy
-of being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a
-quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.
-The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing
-civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a
-compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than
-gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before
-her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage
-was extremely agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose
-to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the
-consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and
-till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.
-
-If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the
-younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this
-time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there
-was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton
-once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after--the very
-shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have
-found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the
-improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than
-a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and
-Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
-
-
-
-Chapter 18
-
-
-Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in
-vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a
-doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty
-of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that
-might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than
-usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all
-that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than
-might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose
-the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's
-pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though
-this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was
-pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who
-told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the
-day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile,
-“I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if
-he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.”
-
-This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by
-Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for
-Wickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every
-feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate
-disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to
-the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.
-Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She
-was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away
-with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in
-speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.
-
-But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect
-of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her
-spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had
-not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition
-to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular
-notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress;
-they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
-apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being
-aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable
-partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from
-him was ecstasy.
-
-She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of
-Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances
-were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with
-her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who took
-her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that,
-without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again
-immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of
-mind; Charlotte tried to console her:
-
-“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”
-
-“Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find
-a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an
-evil.”
-
-When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her
-hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a
-simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant
-in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no
-answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which
-she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and
-reading in her neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding
-it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
-imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at
-first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would
-be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made
-some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again
-silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time
-with:--“It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked
-about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some sort of remark on the size
-of the room, or the number of couples.”
-
-He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be
-said.
-
-“Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may
-observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But
-_now_ we may be silent.”
-
-“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”
-
-“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be
-entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of
-_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the
-trouble of saying as little as possible.”
-
-“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you
-imagine that you are gratifying mine?”
-
-“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great
-similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,
-taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say
-something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
-posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.”
-
-“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,”
- said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_
-think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”
-
-“I must not decide on my own performance.”
-
-He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down
-the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often
-walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist
-the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just
-been forming a new acquaintance.”
-
-The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his
-features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself
-for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a
-constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners
-as may ensure his _making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of
-_retaining_ them, is less certain.”
-
-“He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,” replied Elizabeth
-with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all
-his life.”
-
-Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At
-that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass
-through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.
-Darcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on
-his dancing and his partner.
-
-“I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very
-superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the
-first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not
-disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,
-especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at
-her sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then
-flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:--but let me not interrupt you, sir. You
-will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that
-young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”
-
-The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir
-William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his
-eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and
-Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,
-he turned to his partner, and said, “Sir William's interruption has made
-me forget what we were talking of.”
-
-“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have
-interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves.
-We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we
-are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
-
-“What think you of books?” said he, smiling.
-
-“Books--oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same
-feelings.”
-
-“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be
-no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
-
-“No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of
-something else.”
-
-“The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?” said he,
-with a look of doubt.
-
-“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her
-thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared
-by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,
-that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was
-unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being
-created_.”
-
-“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.
-
-“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
-
-“I hope not.”
-
-“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,
-to be secure of judging properly at first.”
-
-“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
-
-“Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she, endeavouring
-to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”
-
-“And what is your success?”
-
-She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different
-accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
-
-“I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may vary
-greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were
-not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to
-fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”
-
-“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
-opportunity.”
-
-“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied.
-She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in
-silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree,
-for in Darcy's breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards
-her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against
-another.
-
-They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her, and
-with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:
-
-“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham!
-Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand
-questions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among
-his other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late
-Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to
-give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's
-using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has
-always been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated
-Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but
-I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he
-cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother
-thought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to
-the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself
-out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent
-thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,
-Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really,
-considering his descent, one could not expect much better.”
-
-“His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,” said
-Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse
-than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can
-assure you, he informed me himself.”
-
-“I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.
-“Excuse my interference--it was kindly meant.”
-
-“Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much mistaken
-if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see
-nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.
-Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make
-inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of
-such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently
-marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening.
-Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for
-Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way
-before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.
-
-“I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her
-sister's, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have
-been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case
-you may be sure of my pardon.”
-
-“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
-satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of
-his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have
-principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,
-the probity, and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that
-Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has
-received; and I am sorry to say by his account as well as his sister's,
-Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has
-been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard.”
-
-“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?”
-
-“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”
-
-“This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am
-satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”
-
-“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard
-them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to
-him _conditionally_ only.”
-
-“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly;
-“but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.
-Bingley's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but
-since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt
-the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of
-both gentlemen as I did before.”
-
-She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on
-which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with
-delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr.
-Bingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence
-in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew
-to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last
-partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them,
-and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as
-to make a most important discovery.
-
-“I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now
-in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the
-gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of
-the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady
-Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have
-thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de
-Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made
-in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to
-do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total
-ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.”
-
-“You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!”
-
-“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.
-I believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to
-assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight.”
-
-Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him
-that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction
-as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that
-it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either
-side; and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
-consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her
-with the determined air of following his own inclination, and, when she
-ceased speaking, replied thus:
-
-“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in
-your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your
-understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide
-difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity,
-and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that
-I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with
-the highest rank in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of
-behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to
-follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to
-perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to
-profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant
-guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by
-education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young
-lady like yourself.” And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr.
-Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose
-astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced
-his speech with a solemn bow and though she could not hear a word of
-it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the
-words “apology,” “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed
-her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him
-with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time
-to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however,
-was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed
-abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the
-end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.
-Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
-
-“I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied with my
-reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered
-me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying
-that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be
-certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very
-handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.”
-
-As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned
-her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the
-train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to,
-made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in
-that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection
-could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of
-endeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts
-she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to
-venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to
-supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which
-placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find
-that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely,
-openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon
-be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet
-seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the
-match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but
-three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and
-then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of
-Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as
-she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger
-daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of
-other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be
-able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that
-she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was
-necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on
-such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.
-Bennet to find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She
-concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally
-fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no
-chance of it.
-
-In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's
-words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible
-whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the
-chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her
-mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.
-
-“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am
-sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say
-nothing _he_ may not like to hear.”
-
-“For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you
-to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by
-so doing!”
-
-Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would
-talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and
-blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently
-glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what
-she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was
-convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression
-of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
-steady gravity.
-
-At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who
-had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no
-likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and
-chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of
-tranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and
-she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
-preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent
-entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance,
-but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of
-exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's
-eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched her
-progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very
-ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks
-of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to
-favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another.
-Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was
-weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at
-Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to
-Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs
-of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,
-imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his
-interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,
-and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, “That will do
-extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other
-young ladies have time to exhibit.”
-
-Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and
-Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid
-her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.
-
-“If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I
-should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an
-air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly
-compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however,
-to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time
-to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The
-rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make
-such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not
-offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time
-that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care
-and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making
-as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance
-that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody,
-especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit
-him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an
-occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the
-family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had
-been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared--many
-smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his
-wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly,
-and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably
-clever, good kind of young man.
-
-To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to
-expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would
-have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or
-finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister
-that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his
-feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he
-must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should
-have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough,
-and she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the
-gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.
-
-The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by
-Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though
-he could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her
-power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with
-somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.
-He assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;
-that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to
-her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
-the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed
-her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and
-good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.
-
-She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy's further notice;
-though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite
-disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the
-probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in
-it.
-
-The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by
-a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of
-an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how
-heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her
-sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and
-were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed
-every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a
-languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the
-long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his
-sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and
-politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said
-nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.
-Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the
-rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
-silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too
-much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord,
-how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.
-
-When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly
-civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and
-addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he
-would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without
-the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure,
-and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on
-her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next
-day for a short time.
-
-Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the
-delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of
-settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly
-see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four
-months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought
-with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.
-Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the
-man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each
-was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
-
-
-
-Chapter 19
-
-
-The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
-declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as
-his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having
-no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at
-the moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the
-observances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On
-finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together,
-soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:
-
-“May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
-when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the
-course of this morning?”
-
-Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
-Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!--yes--certainly. I am sure Lizzy
-will be very happy--I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I
-want you up stairs.” And, gathering her work together, she was hastening
-away, when Elizabeth called out:
-
-“Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse
-me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am
-going away myself.”
-
-“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.” And upon
-Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to
-escape, she added: “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr.
-Collins.”
-
-Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's
-consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it
-over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to
-conceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between
-distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as
-they were gone, Mr. Collins began.
-
-“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from
-doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You
-would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little
-unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected
-mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the
-purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to
-dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as
-soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of
-my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
-subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for
-marrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design
-of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”
-
-The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away
-with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could
-not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further,
-and he continued:
-
-“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for
-every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example
-of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will
-add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought
-to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and
-recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling
-patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked
-too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I
-left Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
-arranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you
-must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose
-a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,
-useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small
-income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as
-you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the
-way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice
-and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the
-advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond
-anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be
-acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and
-respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
-intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views
-were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I
-can assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
-being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured
-father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy
-myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that
-the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy
-event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not
-be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and
-I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing
-remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the
-violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and
-shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well
-aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds
-in the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's
-decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
-therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that
-no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.”
-
-It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
-
-“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no
-answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for
-the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of
-your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to
-decline them.”
-
-“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the
-hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the
-man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their
-favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a
-third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just
-said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”
-
-“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is a rather
-extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not
-one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so
-daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second
-time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_
-happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who
-could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I
-am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the
-situation.”
-
-“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins
-very gravely--“but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
-disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of
-seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your
-modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification.”
-
-“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You
-must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment
-of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by
-refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.
-In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your
-feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
-estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may
-be considered, therefore, as finally settled.” And rising as she
-thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus
-addressed her:
-
-“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I
-shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given
-me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I
-know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on
-the first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to
-encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the
-female character.”
-
-“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with some warmth, “you puzzle me
-exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form
-of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
-to convince you of its being one.”
-
-“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your
-refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for
-believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is
-unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would
-be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections
-with the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are
-circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further
-consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no
-means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your
-portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo
-the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must
-therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me,
-I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by
-suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.”
-
-“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind
-of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would
-rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you
-again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but
-to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
-forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant
-female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking
-the truth from her heart.”
-
-“You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward
-gallantry; “and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express
-authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of
-being acceptable.”
-
-To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make
-no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if
-he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering
-encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered
-in such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could
-not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
-
-
-
-Chapter 20
-
-
-Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
-successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule
-to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open
-the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she
-entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in
-warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins
-received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then
-proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result
-of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the
-refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
-from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.
-
-This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been
-glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage
-him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it,
-and could not help saying so.
-
-“But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be
-brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very
-headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will
-_make_ her know it.”
-
-“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but if
-she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
-altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who
-naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she
-actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not
-to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of
-temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.”
-
-“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. “Lizzy is
-only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as
-good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and
-we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.”
-
-She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
-husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr. Bennet, you
-are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make
-Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you
-do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_.”
-
-Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them
-on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by
-her communication.
-
-“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had
-finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”
-
-“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,
-and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.”
-
-“And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business.”
-
-“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her
-marrying him.”
-
-“Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
-library.
-
-“Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for
-you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made
-you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth replied that it was.
-“Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?”
-
-“I have, sir.”
-
-“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your
-accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”
-
-“Yes, or I will never see her again.”
-
-“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must
-be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you
-again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again
-if you _do_.”
-
-Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning,
-but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the
-affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.
-
-“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to
-_insist_ upon her marrying him.”
-
-“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request.
-First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the
-present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the
-library to myself as soon as may be.”
-
-Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did
-Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;
-coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane
-in her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined
-interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and
-sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner
-varied, however, her determination never did.
-
-Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.
-He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin
-could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other
-way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her
-deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.
-
-While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend
-the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to
-her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such
-fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has
-made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.”
-
-Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,
-who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the
-breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on
-the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
-her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her
-family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone,
-“for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used,
-nobody feels for my poor nerves.”
-
-Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
-
-“Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned
-as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided
-she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy--if you take it
-into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,
-you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is
-to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep
-you--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told
-you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again,
-and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking
-to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking
-to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have
-no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it
-is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.”
-
-Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that
-any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the
-irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of
-them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with
-an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to
-the girls, “Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold
-your tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation
-together.”
-
-Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but
-Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,
-detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after
-herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little
-curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending
-not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected
-conversation: “Oh! Mr. Collins!”
-
-“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this point.
-Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice that marked his
-displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation
-to inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a
-young man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment;
-and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt
-of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand;
-for I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as
-when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our
-estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect
-to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to
-your daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the
-compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my
-behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my
-dismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all
-liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair.
-My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due
-consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_
-has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 21
-
-
-The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and
-Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily
-attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of her
-mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly
-expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her,
-but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke
-to her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of
-himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose
-civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and
-especially to her friend.
-
-The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill-humour or ill
-health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth
-had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did
-not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on
-Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.
-
-After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham
-were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.
-He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their
-aunt's where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was
-well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged
-that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed.
-
-“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not meet
-Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so
-many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes
-might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”
-
-She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full
-discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly
-bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with
-them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to
-her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the
-compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an
-occasion of introducing him to her father and mother.
-
-Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came
-from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little,
-hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and
-Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw
-her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected
-herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual
-cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety
-on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no
-sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane
-invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room,
-Jane, taking out the letter, said:
-
-“This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good
-deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on
-their way to town--and without any intention of coming back again. You
-shall hear what she says.”
-
-She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information
-of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,
-and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a
-house. The next was in these words: “I do not pretend to regret anything
-I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend;
-but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that
-delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may
-lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved
-correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these highflown
-expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust;
-and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw
-nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their
-absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as
-to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to
-regard it, in the enjoyment of his.
-
-“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should not be
-able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not
-hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks
-forward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful
-intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater
-satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by
-them.”
-
-“Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
-Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”
-
-“When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which
-took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we
-are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when
-Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have
-determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend
-his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are
-already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my
-dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd--but of
-that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may
-abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your
-beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the
-three of whom we shall deprive you.”
-
-“It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this
-winter.”
-
-“It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he _should_.”
-
-“Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own
-master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which
-particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.”
-
-“Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth,
-_we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think
-Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments;
-and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into
-something still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of
-her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before
-mentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the
-country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them
-unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have
-frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing;
-her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister's
-partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most
-capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to
-favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest
-Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness
-of so many?”
-
-“What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane as she
-finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that
-Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is
-perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference; and that if she
-suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to
-put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?”
-
-“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?”
-
-“Most willingly.”
-
-“You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is
-in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him
-to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he
-does not care about you.”
-
-Jane shook her head.
-
-“Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you
-together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She
-is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr.
-Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the
-case is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she
-is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion
-that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble
-in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and
-I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
-my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley
-tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
-degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on
-Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead
-of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.”
-
-“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your
-representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the
-foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving
-anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving
-herself.”
-
-“That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you
-will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all means.
-You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.”
-
-“But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
-accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry
-elsewhere?”
-
-“You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon mature
-deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is
-more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by
-all means to refuse him.”
-
-“How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling. “You must know that
-though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could
-not hesitate.”
-
-“I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider
-your situation with much compassion.”
-
-“But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
-required. A thousand things may arise in six months!”
-
-The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost
-contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's
-interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those
-wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man
-so totally independent of everyone.
-
-She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt
-on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.
-Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,
-though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that
-Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.
-
-They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the
-family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;
-but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,
-and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen
-to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After
-lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr.
-Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the
-conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had
-been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two
-full courses.
-
-
-
-Chapter 22
-
-
-The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the
-chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
-Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good
-humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.”
- Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and
-that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was
-very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth
-had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her
-from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards
-herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so
-favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost
-secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very
-soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his
-character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next
-morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw
-himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,
-from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to
-conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known
-till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost
-secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,
-he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday.
-His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas
-perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and
-instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had
-she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.
-
-In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow,
-everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as
-they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that
-was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must
-be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with
-his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must
-guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its
-continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure
-and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that
-establishment were gained.
-
-Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;
-and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
-circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom
-they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were
-exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more
-interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer
-Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided
-opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
-Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife
-should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short,
-were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes
-of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have
-done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's
-dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had
-gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were
-in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible
-nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must
-be imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly
-either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was
-the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune,
-and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
-preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at
-the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all
-the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business
-was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship
-she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder,
-and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be
-shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved
-to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins,
-when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
-passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very
-dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the
-curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct
-questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was
-at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to
-publish his prosperous love.
-
-As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the
-family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved
-for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality,
-said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever
-his engagements might allow him to visit them.
-
-“My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly
-gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and
-you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as
-possible.”
-
-They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for
-so speedy a return, immediately said:
-
-“But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my
-good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of
-offending your patroness.”
-
-“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you
-for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so
-material a step without her ladyship's concurrence.”
-
-“You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her
-displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us
-again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,
-and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.”
-
-“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
-affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive
-from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your
-regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though
-my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now
-take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my
-cousin Elizabeth.”
-
-With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally
-surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to
-understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her
-younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.
-She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was
-a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no
-means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read
-and improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very
-agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this
-kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a
-private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.
-
-The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her
-friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but
-that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from
-possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was
-consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and
-she could not help crying out:
-
-“Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte--impossible!”
-
-The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her
-story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a
-reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained
-her composure, and calmly replied:
-
-“Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible
-that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,
-because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?”
-
-But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort
-for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of
-their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her
-all imaginable happiness.
-
-“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be surprised,
-very much surprised--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry
-you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be
-satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never
-was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's
-character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
-chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on
-entering the marriage state.”
-
-Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward pause,
-they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much
-longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard.
-It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so
-unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers
-of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now
-accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was
-not exactly like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible
-that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better
-feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a
-most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself
-and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it
-was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had
-chosen.
-
-
-
-Chapter 23
-
-
-Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what
-she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to mention
-it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to
-announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,
-and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the
-houses, he unfolded the matter--to an audience not merely wondering, but
-incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness,
-protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and
-often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:
-
-“Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know
-that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”
-
-Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
-without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried
-him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the
-truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the
-most forbearing courtesy.
-
-Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant
-a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by
-mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and
-endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters
-by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she
-was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the
-happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character
-of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
-
-Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while
-Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings
-found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving
-the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins
-had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be
-happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two
-inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that
-Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she
-herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two
-points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
-console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her
-resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without
-scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William
-or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she
-could at all forgive their daughter.
-
-Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such
-as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for
-it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had
-been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and
-more foolish than his daughter!
-
-Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said
-less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;
-nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty
-and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a
-clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news
-to spread at Meryton.
-
-Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort
-on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she
-called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,
-though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been
-enough to drive happiness away.
-
-Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them
-mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that
-no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her
-disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her
-sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could
-never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious,
-as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his
-return.
-
-Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting
-the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised
-letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to
-their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a
-twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
-his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many
-rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection
-of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was
-merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready
-to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither
-he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,
-he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take
-place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable
-argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
-the happiest of men.
-
-Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of
-pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to
-complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come
-to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient
-and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house
-while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the
-most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and
-they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued
-absence.
-
-Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after
-day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the
-report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to
-Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.
-Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous
-falsehood.
-
-Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that
-his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as
-she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so
-dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its
-frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters
-and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss
-Darcy and the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for
-the strength of his attachment.
-
-As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more
-painful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of
-concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject
-was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother,
-an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her
-impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he
-did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed
-all Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
-tranquillity.
-
-Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his
-reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his
-first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;
-and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them
-from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by
-him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time
-to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.
-
-Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of
-anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour,
-and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight
-of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she
-regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see
-them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and
-whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that
-they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself
-and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She
-complained bitterly of all this to her husband.
-
-“Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte
-Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to
-make way for _her_, and live to see her take her place in it!”
-
-“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for
-better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.”
-
-This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of
-making any answer, she went on as before.
-
-“I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was
-not for the entail, I should not mind it.”
-
-“What should not you mind?”
-
-“I should not mind anything at all.”
-
-“Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
-insensibility.”
-
-“I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How
-anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own
-daughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too!
-Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?”
-
-“I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet.
-
-
-
-Chapter 24
-
-
-Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first
-sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for
-the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had
-time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left
-the country.
-
-Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest
-of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the
-writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied
-the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline
-boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict
-the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former
-letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an
-inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of
-the latter with regard to new furniture.
-
-Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,
-heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern
-for her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's
-assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no
-credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she
-had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
-could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness
-of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave
-of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness
-to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however,
-been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in
-whatever manner he thought best, but her sister's was involved in it, as
-she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short,
-on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She
-could think of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley's regard had really
-died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether
-he had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his
-observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be
-materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained
-the same, her peace equally wounded.
-
-A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to
-Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a
-longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could
-not help saying:
-
-“Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no
-idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But
-I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall
-all be as we were before.”
-
-Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said
-nothing.
-
-“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have
-no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
-acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,
-and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A
-little time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better.”
-
-With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately,
-that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it
-has done no harm to anyone but myself.”
-
-“My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your sweetness
-and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say
-to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you
-deserve.”
-
-Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back
-the praise on her sister's warm affection.
-
-“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the
-world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want
-to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not
-be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your
-privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people
-whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see
-of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms
-my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the
-little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or
-sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the
-other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is
-unaccountable!”
-
-“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will
-ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference
-of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and
-Charlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a
-large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be
-ready to believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like
-regard and esteem for our cousin.”
-
-“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else
-could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that
-Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her
-understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a
-conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as
-I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him
-cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though
-it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual,
-change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade
-yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of
-danger security for happiness.”
-
-“I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied
-Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy
-together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You
-mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat
-you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and
-saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy
-ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man
-to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but
-our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than
-it does.”
-
-“And men take care that they should.”
-
-“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea
-of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.”
-
-“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,”
- said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others
-unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,
-want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,
-will do the business.”
-
-“And do you impute it to either of those?”
-
-“Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what
-I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.”
-
-“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”
-
-“Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”
-
-“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can
-only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can
-secure it.”
-
-“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his
-happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they
-may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great
-connections, and pride.”
-
-“Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane;
-“but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have
-known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love
-her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely
-they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think
-herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very
-objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try
-to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an
-affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most
-unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
-mistaken--or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what
-I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in
-the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.”
-
-Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's
-name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
-
-Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no
-more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account
-for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with
-less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she
-did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the
-effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her
-no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at
-the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best
-comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
-
-Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he one day,
-“your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to
-being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then.
-It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction
-among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to
-be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in
-Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham
-be _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”
-
-“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
-all expect Jane's good fortune.”
-
-“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of
-that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make
-the most of it.”
-
-Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom
-which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn
-family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now
-added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already
-heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,
-was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was
-pleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they
-had known anything of the matter.
-
-Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be
-any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society
-of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for
-allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else
-Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.
-
-
-
-Chapter 25
-
-
-After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity,
-Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of
-Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his
-side, by preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason
-to hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would
-be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his
-relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair
-cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another
-letter of thanks.
-
-On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving
-her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas
-at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly
-superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield
-ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived
-by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so
-well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger
-than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant
-woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the
-two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard.
-They had frequently been staying with her in town.
-
-The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival was to
-distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was
-done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.
-Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They
-had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her
-girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was
-nothing in it.
-
-“I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr.
-Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think
-that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had it not
-been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,
-and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have
-a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just
-as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,
-sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of
-them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted
-so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves
-before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the
-greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of
-long sleeves.”
-
-Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before,
-in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her
-sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the
-conversation.
-
-When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. “It
-seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I am
-sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such
-as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl
-for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets
-her, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.”
-
-“An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it will not
-do for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often
-happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of
-independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in
-love with only a few days before.”
-
-“But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so
-doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as
-often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance,
-as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's
-love?”
-
-“I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite
-inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time
-they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he
-offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I
-spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be
-finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?”
-
-“Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor
-Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get
-over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you
-would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she
-would be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be
-of service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as
-anything.”
-
-Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded
-of her sister's ready acquiescence.
-
-“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to
-this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of
-town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go
-out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all,
-unless he really comes to see her.”
-
-“And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his
-friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such
-a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may
-perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he
-would hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its
-impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley
-never stirs without him.”
-
-“So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane
-correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.”
-
-“She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”
-
-But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this
-point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being
-withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which
-convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely
-hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that
-his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends
-successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's
-attractions.
-
-Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the
-Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she
-hoped by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,
-she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of
-seeing him.
-
-The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses,
-the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its
-engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment
-of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family
-dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always
-made part of it--of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and
-on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's
-warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them,
-from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference
-of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and
-she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left
-Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such
-an attachment.
-
-To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
-unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,
-before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very
-part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many
-acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since
-the death of Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher
-intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of
-procuring.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
-character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject
-of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute
-description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of
-praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both
-him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's
-treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's
-reputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and
-was confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam
-Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.
-
-
-
-Chapter 26
-
-
-Mrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given
-on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after
-honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:
-
-“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because
-you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking
-openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve
-yourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want
-of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against
-_him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he
-ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you
-must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all
-expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and
-good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”
-
-“My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”
-
-“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”
-
-“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
-myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I
-can prevent it.”
-
-“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”
-
-“I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with
-Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,
-the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to
-me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence
-of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion of me does
-me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My
-father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I
-should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but
-since we see every day that where there is affection, young people
-are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into
-engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many
-of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it
-would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not
-to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first
-object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,
-I will do my best.”
-
-“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very
-often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.”
-
-“As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: “very
-true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine
-that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been
-so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the
-necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my
-honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope
-you are satisfied.”
-
-Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for
-the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice
-being given on such a point, without being resented.
-
-Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted
-by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,
-his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was
-now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think
-it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that
-she “_wished_ they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day,
-and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she
-rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and
-reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her
-out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said:
-
-“I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”
-
-“_That_ you certainly shall.”
-
-“And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?”
-
-“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”
-
-“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to
-come to Hunsford.”
-
-Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the
-visit.
-
-“My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and I
-hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as
-welcome as either of them.”
-
-The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from
-the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on
-the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their
-correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that
-it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never
-address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,
-and though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the
-sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters
-were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
-curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would
-like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to
-be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte
-expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She
-wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing
-which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and
-roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most
-friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and
-Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
-for her own visit there to know the rest.
-
-Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their
-safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it
-would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.
-
-Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience
-generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or
-hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that
-her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been
-lost.
-
-“My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the
-town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.”
-
-She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.
-“I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very
-glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming
-to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached
-her. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much
-engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that
-Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was
-not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall
-see them soon here.”
-
-Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that
-accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.
-
-Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to
-persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be
-blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning
-for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the
-visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,
-the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no
-longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will
-prove what she felt.
-
-“My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her
-better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been
-entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister,
-though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I
-still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was
-as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for
-wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to
-happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not
-return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I
-receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that
-she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not
-calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was
-in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was
-perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity,
-though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out
-as she did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on
-her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting
-wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the
-cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know
-this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily
-account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to
-his sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and
-amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now,
-because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago.
-He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said
-herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she
-wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I
-cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should
-be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity
-in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought,
-and think only of what will make me happy--your affection, and the
-invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very
-soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield
-again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better
-not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts
-from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and
-Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.--Yours, etc.”
-
-This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she
-considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.
-All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not
-even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on
-every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible
-advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
-Darcy's sister, as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly
-regret what he had thrown away.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
-concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth
-had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to
-herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,
-he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to
-see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.
-Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied
-with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune
-permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
-remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself
-agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than
-in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.
-Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to
-suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was
-ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very
-sincerely wish him happy.
-
-All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the
-circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that
-I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure
-and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and
-wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial
-towards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find
-out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to
-think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My
-watchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more
-interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love
-with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.
-Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take
-his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the
-ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
-handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 27
-
-
-With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise
-diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and
-sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
-Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of
-going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan
-and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure
-as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing
-Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There
-was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
-uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change
-was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her
-a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have
-been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly,
-and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was
-to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement
-of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became
-perfect as plan could be.
-
-The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,
-and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he
-told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.
-
-The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on
-his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that
-Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the
-first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner
-of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of
-what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their
-opinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there
-was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to
-him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that,
-whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable
-and pleasing.
-
-Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her
-think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a
-good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say
-that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much
-delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but
-she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of
-the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were
-worn out, like his information.
-
-It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early
-as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's
-door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when
-they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,
-looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and
-lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,
-whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to
-wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen
-her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
-kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and
-shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.
-
-Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her
-sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to
-her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her
-spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however,
-to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the
-particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch Street, and
-repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
-herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the
-acquaintance.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and
-complimented her on bearing it so well.
-
-“But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss King? I
-should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”
-
-“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,
-between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,
-and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,
-because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get
-a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is
-mercenary.”
-
-“If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know
-what to think.”
-
-“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.”
-
-“But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death
-made her mistress of this fortune.”
-
-“No--why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_
-affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for
-making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally
-poor?”
-
-“But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her
-so soon after this event.”
-
-“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant
-decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,
-why should _we_?”
-
-“_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being
-deficient in something herself--sense or feeling.”
-
-“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
-mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.”
-
-“No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,
-to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”
-
-“Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in
-Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not
-much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow
-where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has
-neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
-worth knowing, after all.”
-
-“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”
-
-Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the
-unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in
-a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
-
-“We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner,
-“but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”
-
-No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
-acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my dear,
-dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what felicity! You
-give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What
-are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport
-we shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other
-travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We
-_will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen.
-Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our
-imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene,
-will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let _our_
-first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of
-travellers.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 28
-
-
-Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to
-Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had
-seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,
-and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.
-
-When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in
-search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.
-The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
-smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.
-
-At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the
-road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge,
-everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte
-appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which
-led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of
-the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing
-at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the
-liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with
-coming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw
-instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage;
-his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some
-minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her
-family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the
-neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they
-were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious
-formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's
-offers of refreshment.
-
-Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help
-in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its
-aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her,
-as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But
-though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to
-gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at
-her friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion.
-When Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be
-ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her
-eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but
-in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to
-admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to
-the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had
-happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the
-garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of
-which he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most
-respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance
-with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and
-owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way
-through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an
-interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out
-with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the
-fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in
-the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which
-the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the
-prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered
-the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome
-modern building, well situated on rising ground.
-
-From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows;
-but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white
-frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte
-took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,
-probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's
-help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything
-was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which
-Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be
-forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by
-Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often
-forgotten.
-
-She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It
-was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining
-in, observed:
-
-“Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine
-de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will
-be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I
-doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice
-when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she
-will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she
-honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is
-charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed
-to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I
-_should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several.”
-
-“Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,” added
-Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.”
-
-“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of
-woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”
-
-The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,
-and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed,
-Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon
-Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,
-and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it
-was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit
-would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious
-interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with
-Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.
-
-About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready
-for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in
-confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running
-up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened
-the door and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with
-agitation, cried out--
-
-“Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for
-there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make
-haste, and come down this moment.”
-
-Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,
-and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in
-quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the
-garden gate.
-
-“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs
-were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her
-daughter.”
-
-“La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not
-Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them;
-the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little
-creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?”
-
-“She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.
-Why does she not come in?”
-
-“Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours
-when Miss de Bourgh comes in.”
-
-“I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She
-looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will
-make him a very proper wife.”
-
-Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation
-with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was
-stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness
-before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that
-way.
-
-At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and
-the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two
-girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which
-Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked
-to dine at Rosings the next day.
-
-
-
-Chapter 29
-
-
-Mr. Collins's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.
-The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
-visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his
-wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity
-of doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady
-Catherine's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.
-
-“I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all surprised by
-her ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at
-Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it
-would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who
-could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there
-(an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately
-after your arrival!”
-
-“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William,
-“from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which
-my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such
-instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.”
-
-Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their
-visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what
-they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and
-so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.
-
-When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth--
-
-“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady
-Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which
-becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on
-whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion
-for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you
-for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank
-preserved.”
-
-While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different
-doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much
-objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of
-her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas
-who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her
-introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done
-to his presentation at St. James's.
-
-As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a
-mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and
-Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such
-raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but
-slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the
-house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally
-cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
-
-When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every
-moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm.
-Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady
-Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or
-miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought
-she could witness without trepidation.
-
-From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a
-rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they
-followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady
-Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship,
-with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had
-settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should
-be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those
-apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.
-
-In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was so completely
-awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage
-enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;
-and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge
-of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself
-quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her
-composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked
-features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not
-conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her
-visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by
-silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone,
-as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to
-Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she
-believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.
-
-When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment
-she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the
-daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her
-being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any
-likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her
-features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very
-little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance
-there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening
-to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before
-her eyes.
-
-After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to
-admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties,
-and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth
-looking at in the summer.
-
-The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and
-all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had
-likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her
-ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish
-nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted
-alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir
-William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law
-said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.
-But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and
-gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved
-a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth
-was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated
-between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in
-listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all
-dinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little
-Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing
-she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the
-gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.
-
-When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to
-be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any
-intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every
-subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to
-have her judgement controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic
-concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as
-to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be
-regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the
-care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was
-beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an
-occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse
-with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
-Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew
-the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel,
-pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters
-she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of
-them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they
-had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been
-her mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of
-her questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then
-observed,
-
-“Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your
-sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no
-occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought
-necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. Do you play and sing, Miss
-Bennet?”
-
-“A little.”
-
-“Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
-instrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it
-some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”
-
-“One of them does.”
-
-“Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss
-Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do
-you draw?”
-
-“No, not at all.”
-
-“What, none of you?”
-
-“Not one.”
-
-“That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother
-should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.”
-
-“My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.”
-
-“Has your governess left you?”
-
-“We never had any governess.”
-
-“No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home
-without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must
-have been quite a slave to your education.”
-
-Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been
-the case.
-
-“Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you
-must have been neglected.”
-
-“Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as
-wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to
-read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be
-idle, certainly might.”
-
-“Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had
-known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage
-one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
-and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is
-wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that
-way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces
-of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and
-it was but the other day that I recommended another young person,
-who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite
-delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's
-calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady
-Catherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your
-younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”
-
-“Yes, ma'am, all.”
-
-“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The
-younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters
-must be very young?”
-
-“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be
-much in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon
-younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and
-amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to
-marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth
-as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would
-not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”
-
-“Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly
-for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”
-
-“With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your
-ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”
-
-Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;
-and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever
-dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.
-
-“You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not
-conceal your age.”
-
-“I am not one-and-twenty.”
-
-When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables
-were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat
-down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the
-two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her
-party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was
-uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson
-expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or
-having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
-other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes
-of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins
-was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her
-for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.
-Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes
-and noble names.
-
-When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,
-the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,
-gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered
-round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were
-to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by
-the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.
-Collins's side and as many bows on Sir William's they departed. As soon
-as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin
-to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for
-Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her
-commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy
-Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise
-into his own hands.
-
-
-
-Chapter 30
-
-
-Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long
-enough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled,
-and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not
-often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his
-morning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but
-when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments,
-and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her
-cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast
-and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in
-reading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room,
-which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.
-Elizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer
-the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a
-more pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent
-reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been
-much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and
-she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
-
-From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and
-were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went
-along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,
-which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened
-almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and
-had a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever
-prevailed upon to get out.
-
-Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and
-not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;
-and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings
-to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many
-hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship,
-and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during
-these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,
-and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement
-of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she
-accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding
-out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.
-
-Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in
-commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate
-in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her
-by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to
-be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the
-village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold
-them into harmony and plenty.
-
-The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;
-and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one
-card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart
-of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living
-in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This,
-however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time
-comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with
-Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had
-often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she
-frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was
-along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was
-a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and
-where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.
-
-In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.
-Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an
-addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be
-important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was
-expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not
-many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would
-furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and
-she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him
-were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently
-destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest
-satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and
-seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by
-Miss Lucas and herself.
-
-His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking
-the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,
-in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his
-bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great
-intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his
-respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for
-Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of
-his uncle Lord ----, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when
-Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen
-them from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running
-into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:
-
-“I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would
-never have come so soon to wait upon me.”
-
-Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,
-before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
-afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,
-who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and
-address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been
-used to look in Hertfordshire--paid his compliments, with his usual
-reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her
-friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely
-curtseyed to him without saying a word.
-
-Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
-readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but
-his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and
-garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody.
-At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of
-Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual
-way, and after a moment's pause, added:
-
-“My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never
-happened to see her there?”
-
-She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see
-whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between
-the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he
-answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The
-subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went
-away.
-
-
-
-Chapter 31
-
-
-Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage,
-and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures
-of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they
-received any invitation thither--for while there were visitors in the
-house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,
-almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by
-such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
-come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little
-of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the
-Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen
-only at church.
-
-The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined
-the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received
-them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so
-acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,
-almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,
-much more than to any other person in the room.
-
-Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a
-welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had
-moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and
-talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying
-at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so
-well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much
-spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself,
-as well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
-towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a
-while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not
-scruple to call out:
-
-“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking
-of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
-
-“We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid
-a reply.
-
-“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I
-must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music.
-There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment
-of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt,
-I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health
-had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed
-delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”
-
-Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.
-
-“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady
-Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel
-if she does not practice a good deal.”
-
-“I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice.
-She practises very constantly.”
-
-“So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write
-to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often
-tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without
-constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she
-will never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs.
-Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told
-her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs.
-Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part
-of the house.”
-
-Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made
-no answer.
-
-When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
-promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He
-drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then
-talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away
-from her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte
-stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's
-countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first
-convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:
-
-“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear
-me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well. There
-is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the
-will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate
-me.”
-
-“I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could not
-really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have
-had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find
-great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are
-not your own.”
-
-Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to
-Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of
-me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky
-in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part
-of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of
-credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all
-that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me leave to
-say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
-things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”
-
-“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.
-
-“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel
-Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”
-
-“You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.
-The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,
-was at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced
-only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain
-knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a
-partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”
-
-“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly
-beyond my own party.”
-
-“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel
-Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”
-
-“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought an
-introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
-
-“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still
-addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and
-education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend
-himself to strangers?”
-
-“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to
-him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”
-
-“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy,
-“of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot
-catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their
-concerns, as I often see done.”
-
-“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the
-masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same
-force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I
-have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I will not take the
-trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as
-capable as any other woman's of superior execution.”
-
-Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your
-time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can
-think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”
-
-Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know
-what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.
-Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said
-to Darcy:
-
-“Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and
-could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion
-of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have
-been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.”
-
-Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
-cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she
-discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss
-de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have
-been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.
-
-Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing
-with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received
-them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the
-gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was
-ready to take them all home.
-
-
-
-Chapter 32
-
-
-Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane
-while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,
-when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a
-visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to
-be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her
-half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,
-when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and
-Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.
-
-He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his
-intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were
-to be within.
-
-They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made,
-seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely
-necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence
-recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and
-feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty
-departure, she observed:
-
-“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!
-It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you
-all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day
-before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?”
-
-“Perfectly so, I thank you.”
-
-She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short
-pause added:
-
-“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever
-returning to Netherfield again?”
-
-“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend
-very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and
-is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually
-increasing.”
-
-“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for
-the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we
-might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did
-not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as
-for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same
-principle.”
-
-“I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as
-soon as any eligible purchase offers.”
-
-Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
-friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the
-trouble of finding a subject to him.
-
-He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable
-house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.
-Collins first came to Hunsford.”
-
-“I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
-kindness on a more grateful object.”
-
-“Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife.”
-
-“Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one
-of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made
-him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though
-I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the
-wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a
-prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.”
-
-“It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a
-distance of her own family and friends.”
-
-“An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”
-
-“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's
-journey. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance.”
-
-“I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_
-of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins
-was settled _near_ her family.”
-
-“It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond
-the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.”
-
-As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she
-understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
-Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:
-
-“I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her
-family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many
-varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of
-travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the
-case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not
-such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my
-friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_
-the present distance.”
-
-Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_ cannot
-have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have
-been always at Longbourn.”
-
-Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of
-feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and
-glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:
-
-“Are you pleased with Kent?”
-
-A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side
-calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte
-and her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised
-them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding
-on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying
-much to anybody, went away.
-
-“What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he was
-gone. “My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never
-have called us in this familiar way.”
-
-But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely,
-even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various
-conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from
-the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable
-from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there
-was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot
-always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the
-pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
-two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither
-almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
-separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
-aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he
-had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended
-him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in
-being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her
-former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw
-there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,
-she believed he might have the best informed mind.
-
-But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult
-to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there
-ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak,
-it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice
-to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really
-animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
-Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was
-generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
-her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the effect
-of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself
-seriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at
-Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He
-certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that
-look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often
-doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it
-seemed nothing but absence of mind.
-
-She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his
-being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
-Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of
-raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her
-opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would
-vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.
-
-
-In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying
-Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he
-certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,
-to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage
-in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.
-
-
-
-Chapter 33
-
-
-More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,
-unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the
-mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to
-prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that
-it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time,
-therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like
-wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was
-not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away,
-but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He
-never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking
-or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third
-rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about
-her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her
-opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of
-Rosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to
-expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying
-_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel
-Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must
-mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed
-her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the
-pales opposite the Parsonage.
-
-She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane's last letter,
-and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in
-spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw
-on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the
-letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:
-
-“I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”
-
-“I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally
-do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are
-you going much farther?”
-
-“No, I should have turned in a moment.”
-
-And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
-together.
-
-“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.
-
-“Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He
-arranges the business just as he pleases.”
-
-“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
-pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems
-more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.”
-
-“He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
-“But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it
-than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
-feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
-dependence.”
-
-“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of
-either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and
-dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going
-wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?”
-
-“These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have
-experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
-weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where
-they like.”
-
-“Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
-do.”
-
-“Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many
-in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to
-money.”
-
-“Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at the
-idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And pray, what
-is the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is
-very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.”
-
-He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt
-a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,
-she soon afterwards said:
-
-“I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
-having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
-lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well
-for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he
-likes with her.”
-
-“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he must
-divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.”
-
-“Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
-charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a
-little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she
-may like to have her own way.”
-
-As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner
-in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to
-give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other
-got pretty near the truth. She directly replied:
-
-“You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare
-say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a
-very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and
-Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.”
-
-“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man--he
-is a great friend of Darcy's.”
-
-“Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
-Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”
-
-“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in
-those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
-our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
-him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
-Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.”
-
-“What is it you mean?”
-
-“It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known,
-because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an
-unpleasant thing.”
-
-“You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”
-
-“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
-Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself
-on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most
-imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other
-particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing
-him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
-knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.”
-
-“Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”
-
-“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
-lady.”
-
-“And what arts did he use to separate them?”
-
-“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He
-only told me what I have now told you.”
-
-Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
-indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
-was so thoughtful.
-
-“I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your
-cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?”
-
-“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”
-
-“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his
-friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to
-determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy.
-But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the
-particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
-that there was much affection in the case.”
-
-“That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is a
-lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.”
-
-This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture
-of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and
-therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent
-matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room,
-as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption
-of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
-people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There
-could not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have
-such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures
-taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had
-always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement
-of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, _he_ was
-the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had
-suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while
-every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the
-world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.
-
-“There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel
-Fitzwilliam's words; and those strong objections probably were, her
-having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in
-business in London.
-
-“To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of
-objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!--her understanding
-excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither
-could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some
-peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and
-respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought of
-her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow
-that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose
-pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of
-importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense;
-and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed
-by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr.
-Bingley for his sister.
-
-The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
-headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to
-her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
-cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
-seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much
-as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins
-could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather
-displeased by her staying at home.
-
-
-
-Chapter 34
-
-
-When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself
-as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
-examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
-being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
-revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
-But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
-cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which,
-proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly
-disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
-noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
-attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
-shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her
-a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation
-to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the
-next--and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should
-herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of
-her spirits, by all that affection could do.
-
-She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that
-his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
-that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not
-mean to be unhappy about him.
-
-While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
-door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
-being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
-the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her.
-But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
-affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
-room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her
-health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
-She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
-then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
-said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her
-in an agitated manner, and thus began:
-
-“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
-repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
-you.”
-
-Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
-doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement;
-and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her,
-immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides
-those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the
-subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of
-its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which had always
-opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to
-the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his
-suit.
-
-In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
-the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did
-not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
-receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she
-lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
-answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
-representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite
-of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
-expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of
-his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt
-of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but
-his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could
-only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her
-cheeks, and she said:
-
-“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
-express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
-unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should
-be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I
-cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
-bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to
-anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be
-of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented
-the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in
-overcoming it after this explanation.”
-
-Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed
-on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than
-surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance
-of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the
-appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed
-himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings
-dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:
-
-“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!
-I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
-civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.”
-
-“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a desire
-of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
-against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
-Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
-other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against
-you--had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you
-think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has
-been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most
-beloved sister?”
-
-As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
-was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
-continued:
-
-“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
-excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
-you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means
-of dividing them from each other--of exposing one to the censure of the
-world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for
-disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
-kind.”
-
-She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening
-with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.
-He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.
-
-“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.
-
-With assumed tranquillity he then replied: “I have no wish of denying
-that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your
-sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been
-kinder than towards myself.”
-
-Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,
-but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.
-
-“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike
-is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was
-decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received
-many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to
-say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
-or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?”
-
-“You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,” said Darcy,
-in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
-
-“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
-interest in him?”
-
-“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his misfortunes
-have been great indeed.”
-
-“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have reduced
-him to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You have
-withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for
-him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence
-which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!
-and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and
-ridicule.”
-
-“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
-“is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me!
-I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
-calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,” added he, stopping in
-his walk, and turning towards her, “these offenses might have been
-overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
-scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
-bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater
-policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of
-my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
-reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
-Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and
-just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
-connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose
-condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”
-
-Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
-the utmost to speak with composure when she said:
-
-“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
-declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern
-which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more
-gentlemanlike manner.”
-
-She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:
-
-“You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that
-would have tempted me to accept it.”
-
-Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
-expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:
-
-“From the very beginning--from the first moment, I may almost say--of
-my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest
-belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of
-the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of
-disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a
-dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
-last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
-
-“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
-feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
-Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
-wishes for your health and happiness.”
-
-And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
-the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
-
-The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how
-to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for
-half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed,
-was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
-marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for
-so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of
-all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying
-her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his
-own case--was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired
-unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable
-pride--his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to
-Jane--his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could
-not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr.
-Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon
-overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for
-a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the
-sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to
-encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.
-
-
-
-Chapter 35
-
-
-Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations
-which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the
-surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything
-else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after
-breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
-directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's
-sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,
-she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The
-park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one
-of the gates into the ground.
-
-After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
-tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and
-look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had
-made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the
-verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,
-when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which
-edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr.
-Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now
-near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced
-her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though
-in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the
-gate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter,
-which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure,
-“I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.
-Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a
-slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.
-
-With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,
-Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder,
-perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written
-quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise
-full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated
-from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--
-
-“Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension
-of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those
-offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any
-intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes
-which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the
-effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion,
-should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written
-and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand
-your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I
-demand it of your justice.
-
-“Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
-magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was,
-that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley
-from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various
-claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate
-prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and
-wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged
-favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other
-dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect
-its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young
-persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could
-bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last
-night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope
-to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions
-and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which
-is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which
-may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity
-must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.
-
-“I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
-others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young
-woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance
-at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious
-attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I
-had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir
-William Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to
-your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage.
-He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could
-be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour
-attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss
-Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also
-watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever,
-but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced
-from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions
-with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
-sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been
-in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter
-probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict
-pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not
-scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and
-air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction
-that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be
-easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is
-certain--but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions
-are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe
-her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial
-conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the
-marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have
-the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of
-connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But
-there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still
-existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had
-myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before
-me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your
-mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that
-total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by
-herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your
-father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern
-for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this
-representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to
-have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure,
-is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than
-it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say
-farther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties
-was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led
-me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy
-connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as
-you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.
-
-“The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness
-had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was
-soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in
-detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in
-London. We accordingly went--and there I readily engaged in the office
-of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I
-described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance
-might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose
-that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been
-seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your
-sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his
-affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great
-natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his
-own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was
-no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into
-Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the
-work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There
-is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not
-reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the
-measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in
-town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her
-brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without
-ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me
-enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this
-concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it
-was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no
-other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it
-was unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to
-you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn
-them.
-
-“With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured
-Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his
-connection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I
-am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more
-than one witness of undoubted veracity.
-
-“Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many
-years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good
-conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to
-be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his
-kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at
-school, and afterwards at Cambridge--most important assistance, as his
-own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have
-been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only
-fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he
-had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be
-his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is
-many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different
-manner. The vicious propensities--the want of principle, which he was
-careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape
-the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself,
-and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr.
-Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree
-you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham
-has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from
-unfolding his real character--it adds even another motive.
-
-“My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to
-Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly
-recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner
-that his profession might allow--and if he took orders, desired that a
-valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There
-was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long
-survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham
-wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders,
-he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more
-immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he
-could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying
-law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
-be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed
-him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to
-his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the
-business was therefore soon settled--he resigned all claim to assistance
-in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to
-receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection
-between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him
-to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly
-lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free
-from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.
-For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
-incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to
-me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured
-me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He
-had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely
-resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in
-question--of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was
-well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not
-have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame
-me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every
-repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of
-his circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
-to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every
-appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But
-last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
-
-“I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself,
-and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold
-to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your
-secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to
-the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself.
-About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed
-for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided
-over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by
-design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him
-and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and
-by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
-whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to
-her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and
-to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her
-excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed
-the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two
-before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the
-idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
-a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and
-how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented
-any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place
-immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr.
-Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which
-is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of
-revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have
-been complete indeed.
-
-“This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have
-been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as
-false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr.
-Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he
-had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered
-at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either,
-detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in
-your inclination.
-
-“You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but
-I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to
-be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more
-particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our
-near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of
-the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
-with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_
-should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by
-the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be
-the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some
-opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the
-morning. I will only add, God bless you.
-
-“FITZWILLIAM DARCY”
-
-
-
-Chapter 36
-
-
-If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
-contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of
-its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly
-she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.
-Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did
-she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;
-and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation
-to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
-prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what
-had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly
-left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the
-next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of
-the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she
-instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst
-objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing
-him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied
-her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and
-insolence.
-
-But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when
-she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which,
-if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which
-bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her
-feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
-Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished
-to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false!
-This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”--and when she had
-gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the
-last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
-regard it, that she would never look in it again.
-
-In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
-nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter
-was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she
-again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and
-commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.
-The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what
-he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though
-she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own
-words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the
-will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living
-was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was
-impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the
-other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did
-not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the
-particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions
-to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three
-thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down
-the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
-impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with
-little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read
-on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had
-believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to
-render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a
-turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.
-
-The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at
-Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
-bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his
-entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the
-persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
-had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life
-nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As
-to his real character, had information been in her power, she had
-never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had
-established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried
-to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of
-integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of
-Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those
-casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy
-had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But
-no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before
-her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more
-substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and
-the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After
-pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to
-read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss
-Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
-Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was
-referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
-himself--from whom she had previously received the information of his
-near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
-reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to
-him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and
-at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never
-have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
-cousin's corroboration.
-
-She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation
-between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's.
-Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_
-struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and
-wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
-himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions
-with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear
-of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
-_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball
-the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield
-family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but
-herself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed;
-that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's
-character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would
-always prevent his exposing the son.
-
-How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned!
-His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
-hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer
-the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.
-His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had
-either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying
-his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most
-incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
-and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not
-but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago
-asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as
-were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their
-acquaintance--an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much
-together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything
-that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him
-of irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was
-esteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a
-brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his
-sister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling; that had his
-actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
-everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and
-that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man
-as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.
-
-She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham
-could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced,
-absurd.
-
-“How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself
-on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have
-often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified
-my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this
-discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could
-not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my
-folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect
-of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
-prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were
-concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”
-
-From herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line
-which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation
-_there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely
-different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that
-credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to
-give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her
-sister's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's
-opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his
-description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were
-little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air
-and manner not often united with great sensibility.
-
-When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
-mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense
-of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly
-for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as
-having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
-disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind
-than on hers.
-
-The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed,
-but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been
-self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered
-that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest
-relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt
-by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she
-had ever known before.
-
-After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
-variety of thought--re-considering events, determining probabilities,
-and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and
-so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made
-her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish
-of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such
-reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.
-
-She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
-called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take
-leave--but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least
-an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her
-till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern
-in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no
-longer an object; she could think only of her letter.
-
-
-
-Chapter 37
-
-
-The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having
-been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was
-able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very
-good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the
-melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then
-hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return
-brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship,
-importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of
-having them all to dine with her.
-
-Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had
-she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as
-her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her
-ladyship's indignation would have been. “What would she have said? how
-would she have behaved?” were questions with which she amused herself.
-
-Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. “I assure
-you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe no one
-feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly
-attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to
-me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The
-dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy
-seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His
-attachment to Rosings certainly increases.”
-
-Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which
-were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.
-
-Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of
-spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that
-she did not like to go home again so soon, she added:
-
-“But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that
-you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your
-company, I am sure.”
-
-“I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied
-Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town
-next Saturday.”
-
-“Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected
-you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There
-can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly
-spare you for another fortnight.”
-
-“But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.”
-
-“Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters
-are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay
-another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as
-far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as
-Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room
-for one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I
-should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.”
-
-“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our
-original plan.”
-
-Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant
-with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea
-of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper.
-You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in
-the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly
-guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my
-niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her
-having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of
-Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with
-propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those
-things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I
-am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be
-discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.”
-
-“My uncle is to send a servant for us.”
-
-“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you
-have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses?
-Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be
-attended to.”
-
-Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,
-and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,
-which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so
-occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be
-reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it
-as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary
-walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant
-recollections.
-
-Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She
-studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at
-times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,
-she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly
-she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against
-herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.
-His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she
-could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal,
-or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past
-behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in
-the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin.
-They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at
-them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his
-youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right
-herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently
-united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine
-and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,
-what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
-irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always
-affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would
-scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While
-there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while
-Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there
-forever.
-
-Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy's
-explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion,
-heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved
-to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any
-could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How
-grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every
-respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had
-been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!
-
-When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham's
-character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had
-seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it
-almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
-
-Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of
-her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent
-there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of
-their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,
-and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right
-way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the
-work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.
-
-When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them
-a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;
-and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her
-hand to both.
-
-
-
-Chapter 38
-
-
-On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few
-minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of
-paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.
-
-“I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet
-expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very
-certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for
-it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We
-know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain
-manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we
-see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
-yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,
-and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending
-your time unpleasantly.”
-
-Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She
-had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with
-Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_
-feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling
-solemnity replied:
-
-“It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not
-disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately
-having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and,
-from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the
-humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford
-visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to
-Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage
-and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You
-see how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge
-that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should
-not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are
-sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”
-
-Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was
-obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility
-and truth in a few short sentences.
-
-“You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
-Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will
-be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you
-have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear
-that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be
-as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,
-that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in
-marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of
-thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of
-character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each
-other.”
-
-Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was
-the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed
-and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to
-have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang.
-Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she
-had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that
-her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her
-home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their
-dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.
-
-At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels
-placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate
-parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by
-Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her
-with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks
-for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
-compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her
-in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed,
-when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
-hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.
-
-“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects
-delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you
-while you have been here.”
-
-Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and
-the carriage drove off.
-
-“Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, “it seems
-but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have
-happened!”
-
-“A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh.
-
-“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!
-How much I shall have to tell!”
-
-Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to conceal!”
-
-Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and
-within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner's
-house, where they were to remain a few days.
-
-Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her
-spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her
-aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at
-Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.
-
-It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for
-Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know
-that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish
-Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own
-vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation
-to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision
-in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate;
-and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried
-into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister
-further.
-
-
-
-Chapter 39
-
-
-It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
-together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire;
-and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage
-was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's
-punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up stairs.
-These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed
-in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and
-dressing a salad and cucumber.
-
-After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set
-out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,
-“Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?”
-
-“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend us the
-money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then, showing
-her purchases--“Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think
-it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall
-pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
-better.”
-
-And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
-unconcern, “Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and
-when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I
-think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what
-one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they
-are going in a fortnight.”
-
-“Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to
-take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme;
-and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to
-go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall
-have!”
-
-“Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “_that_ would be a delightful scheme indeed,
-and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole
-campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor
-regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!”
-
-“Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down at
-table. “What do you think? It is excellent news--capital news--and about
-a certain person we all like!”
-
-Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need
-not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:
-
-“Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the
-waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse
-things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad
-he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for
-my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not?
-There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She
-is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”
-
-“And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection
-imprudent as to fortune.”
-
-“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”
-
-“But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane.
-
-“I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared
-three straws about her--who could about such a nasty little freckled
-thing?”
-
-Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
-coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_
-was little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!
-
-As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
-ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their
-boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and
-Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.
-
-“How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I bought my
-bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now
-let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way
-home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all
-since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any
-flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband
-before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.
-She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not
-being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to
-get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.
-Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
-how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would
-chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece
-of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend
-the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the
-evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so
-she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen
-was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
-dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a
-lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.
-Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow
-one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,
-and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they
-did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
-Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect
-something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.”
-
-With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did
-Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her
-companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she
-could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.
-
-Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane
-in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet
-say voluntarily to Elizabeth:
-
-“I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”
-
-Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases
-came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that
-occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and
-poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one
-hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat
-some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger
-Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's,
-was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who
-would hear her.
-
-“Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
-As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there
-was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty
-had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved
-very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold
-luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated
-you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never
-should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then
-we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that
-anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”
-
-To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister,
-to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the
-generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for
-_me_--I should infinitely prefer a book.”
-
-But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to
-anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.
-
-In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk
-to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily
-opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could
-not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers.
-There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr.
-Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The
-comfort to _her_ of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond
-expression. In a fortnight they were to go--and once gone, she hoped
-there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.
-
-She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton
-scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under
-frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her
-father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were
-at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often
-disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.
-
-
-
-Chapter 40
-
-
-Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could
-no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every
-particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be
-surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene
-between Mr. Darcy and herself.
-
-Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
-partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
-natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
-sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
-little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
-unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.
-
-“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly
-ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
-disappointment!”
-
-“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
-other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.
-You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”
-
-“Blame you! Oh, no.”
-
-“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”
-
-“No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”
-
-“But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very next
-day.”
-
-She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
-as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!
-who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that
-so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here
-collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though
-grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
-Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and
-seek to clear the one without involving the other.
-
-“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both
-of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
-with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
-enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
-about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's;
-but you shall do as you choose.”
-
-It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.
-
-“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so
-very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only
-consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the
-knowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing
-of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it
-so.”
-
-“Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so
-full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am
-growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion
-makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will
-be as light as a feather.”
-
-“Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his
-countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!”
-
-“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
-two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
-appearance of it.”
-
-“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you
-used to do.”
-
-“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike
-to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an
-opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
-abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing
-at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”
-
-“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
-the matter as you do now.”
-
-“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And
-with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say
-that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I
-had! Oh! how I wanted you!”
-
-“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
-in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
-undeserved.”
-
-“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most
-natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There
-is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
-ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand
-Wickham's character.”
-
-Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no
-occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?”
-
-“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me
-to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular
-relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to
-myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his
-conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy
-is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in
-Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal
-to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to
-anyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out,
-and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At
-present I will say nothing about it.”
-
-“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
-ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
-re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.”
-
-The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had
-got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,
-and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish
-to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,
-of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other
-half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she
-had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one
-could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
-understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off
-this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if that very
-improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to
-tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The
-liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!”
-
-She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
-state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
-very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself
-in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment,
-and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first
-attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance,
-and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her
-attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the
-indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own
-health and their tranquillity.
-
-“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what is your opinion _now_ of
-this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak
-of it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day. But
-I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is
-a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there's the least
-chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of
-his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of
-everybody, too, who is likely to know.”
-
-“I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”
-
-“Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I
-shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I
-would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will
-die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done.”
-
-But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,
-she made no answer.
-
-“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the
-Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope
-it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
-excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her
-mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
-housekeeping, I dare say.”
-
-“No, nothing at all.”
-
-“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes, _they_ will
-take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
-for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
-talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as
-quite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.”
-
-“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”
-
-“No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they
-often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
-estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be
-ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 41
-
-
-The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was
-the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies
-in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost
-universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,
-and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very
-frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and
-Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
-hard-heartedness in any of the family.
-
-“Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they
-often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so,
-Lizzy?”
-
-Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what
-she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years
-ago.
-
-“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel
-Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.”
-
-“I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia.
-
-“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.
-
-“Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
-disagreeable.”
-
-“A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”
-
-“And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,”
- added Kitty.
-
-Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
-Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
-of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
-objections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his
-interference in the views of his friend.
-
-But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
-received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of
-the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a
-very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
-and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
-their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.
-
-The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
-the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
-to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia
-flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's
-congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
-whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate
-in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
-
-“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,”
- said she, “Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much
-right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.”
-
-In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make
-her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
-exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
-considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense
-for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it
-known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her
-go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general
-behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of
-such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
-imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
-be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:
-
-“Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public
-place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so
-little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
-circumstances.”
-
-“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to
-us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and
-imprudent manner--nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you
-would judge differently in the affair.”
-
-“Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened away
-some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
-squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity
-are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who
-have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly.”
-
-“Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not
-of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
-importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the
-wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
-Lydia's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
-father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
-of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
-her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
-will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
-that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the
-worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond
-youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness
-of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal
-contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger
-Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
-ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you
-suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever
-they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the
-disgrace?”
-
-Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and
-affectionately taking her hand said in reply:
-
-“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known
-you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less
-advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly
-sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to
-Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
-keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an
-object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance
-even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find
-women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being
-there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
-many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest
-of her life.”
-
-With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
-continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not
-in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on
-them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret
-over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her
-disposition.
-
-Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her
-father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their
-united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
-every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye
-of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers.
-She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them
-at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp--its tents
-stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
-and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she
-saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
-officers at once.
-
-Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such
-realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have
-been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same.
-Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy
-conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.
-
-But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures
-continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's leaving
-home.
-
-Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been
-frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty
-well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even
-learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted
-her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
-behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,
-for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which
-had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after
-what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in
-finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous
-gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
-reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever
-cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified,
-and her preference secured at any time by their renewal.
-
-On the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined,
-with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
-disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some
-inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she
-mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three
-weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.
-
-He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
-recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen
-him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man,
-asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.
-With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:
-
-“How long did you say he was at Rosings?”
-
-“Nearly three weeks.”
-
-“And you saw him frequently?”
-
-“Yes, almost every day.”
-
-“His manners are very different from his cousin's.”
-
-“Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.”
-
-“Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. “And
-pray, may I ask?--” But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is
-it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility
-to his ordinary style?--for I dare not hope,” he continued in a lower
-and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.”
-
-“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much
-what he ever was.”
-
-While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
-rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
-something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive
-and anxious attention, while she added:
-
-“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that
-his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from
-knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.”
-
-Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated
-look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his
-embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of
-accents:
-
-“You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
-comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
-even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
-may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only
-deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only
-fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been
-alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good
-opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always
-operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be
-imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I
-am certain he has very much at heart.”
-
-Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a
-slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on
-the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
-him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his
-side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish
-Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
-mutual desire of never meeting again.
-
-When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,
-from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation
-between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
-only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
-Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,
-and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the
-opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible--advice which
-there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in
-the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more
-gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.
-
-
-
-Chapter 42
-
-
-Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could
-not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic
-comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
-of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a
-woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in
-their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,
-esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views
-of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of
-a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own
-imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often
-console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of
-the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal
-enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as
-her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not
-the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his
-wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
-philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.
-
-Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her
-father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but
-respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of
-herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to
-banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
-and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own
-children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so
-strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so
-unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising
-from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used,
-might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even
-if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.
-
-When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she found little
-other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties
-abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and
-sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around
-them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
-might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers
-of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition
-greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all
-her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a
-watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what
-has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had been
-looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the
-satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to
-name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity--to have
-some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by
-again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the
-present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes
-was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
-for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother
-and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the
-scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.
-
-“But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to wish for.
-Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.
-But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my
-sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of
-pleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can
-never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by
-the defence of some little peculiar vexation.”
-
-When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely
-to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and
-always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that
-they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers
-had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as
-made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
-she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
-violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to
-the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still
-less to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were
-much too full of lines under the words to be made public.
-
-After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good
-humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore
-a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came
-back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet
-was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of
-June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without
-tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by
-the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to
-mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious
-arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in
-Meryton.
-
-The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast
-approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter
-arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and
-curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from
-setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
-within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so
-far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with
-the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up
-the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the
-present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that
-county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three
-weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The
-town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where
-they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of
-her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
-Dovedale, or the Peak.
-
-Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing
-the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it
-was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;
-and all was soon right again.
-
-With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was
-impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its
-owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his county with impunity,
-and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.”
-
-The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away
-before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr.
-and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
-Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
-younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their
-cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and
-sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every
-way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.
-
-The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the
-next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.
-One enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness of companions;
-a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
-inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection
-and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were
-disappointments abroad.
-
-It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,
-nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither
-lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are
-sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present
-concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's
-former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance
-still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the
-principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton,
-Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not
-in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In
-talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed
-an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
-willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
-
-“My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard
-so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many of your
-acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you
-know.”
-
-Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
-Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She
-must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so
-many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house
-richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it myself; but
-the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the
-country.”
-
-Elizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The
-possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
-occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and
-thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such
-a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved
-that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the
-absence of the family were unfavourably answered.
-
-Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
-whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its
-proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for
-the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her
-alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of
-curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the
-next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and
-with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike
-to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
-
-
-
-Chapter 43
-
-
-Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
-Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
-in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
-
-The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
-entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
-a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
-
-Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
-every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
-half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
-eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
-Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which
-the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone
-building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of
-high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was
-swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks
-were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She
-had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
-beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
-all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that
-to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
-
-They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
-while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of
-meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
-mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
-hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to
-wonder at her being where she was.
-
-The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less
-fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
-followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned
-room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
-to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which
-they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance,
-was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and
-she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its
-banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it,
-with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking
-different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be
-seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to
-the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of
-his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
-splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
-
-“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With
-these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
-viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
-welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,”--recollecting
-herself--“that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to
-me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.”
-
-This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something very like
-regret.
-
-She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really
-absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question
-was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs.
-Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with
-a large party of friends.” How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
-journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
-
-Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the
-likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
-over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
-The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young
-gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought
-up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the army,” she added;
-“but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”
-
-Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
-return it.
-
-“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,
-“is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
-other--about eight years ago.”
-
-“I have heard much of your master's fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner,
-looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
-us whether it is like or not.”
-
-Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
-intimation of her knowing her master.
-
-“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”
-
-Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”
-
-“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?”
-
-“Yes, very handsome.”
-
-“I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you
-will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
-master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to
-be then. He was very fond of them.”
-
-This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.
-
-Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
-when she was only eight years old.
-
-“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs. Gardiner.
-
-“Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
-accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is
-a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she
-comes here to-morrow with him.”
-
-Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her
-communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
-by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
-master and his sister.
-
-“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”
-
-“Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
-time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.”
-
-“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”
-
-“If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”
-
-“Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is
-good enough for him.”
-
-Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, “It is
-very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.”
-
-“I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,”
- replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she
-listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have
-never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever
-since he was four years old.”
-
-This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
-ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.
-Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was
-grateful to her uncle for saying:
-
-“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
-having such a master.”
-
-“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could
-not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
-good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and
-he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the
-world.”
-
-Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she.
-
-“His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
-
-“Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just
-as affable to the poor.”
-
-Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
-Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects
-of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the
-furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
-prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her
-master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his
-many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
-
-“He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that ever
-lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but
-themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give
-him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw
-anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away
-like other young men.”
-
-“In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought Elizabeth.
-
-“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not
-quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”
-
-“Perhaps we might be deceived.”
-
-“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”
-
-On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty
-sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than
-the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to
-give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when
-last at Pemberley.
-
-“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
-one of the windows.
-
-Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter
-the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever
-can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There
-is nothing he would not do for her.”
-
-The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were
-all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings;
-but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
-visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
-Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
-also more intelligible.
-
-In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
-little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of
-the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested
-her--and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a
-smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he
-looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest
-contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.
-Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's
-lifetime.
-
-There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
-sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of
-their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
-was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
-of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
-considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--how
-much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!--how much of
-good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought
-forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
-stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his
-eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of
-gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and
-softened its impropriety of expression.
-
-When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
-they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were
-consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.
-
-As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back
-to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former
-was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
-suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
-
-They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
-appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
-instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest
-blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from
-surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
-and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least
-of perfect civility.
-
-She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,
-received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
-overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture
-they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two
-that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on
-beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little
-aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
-scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer
-she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the
-alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that
-he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
-impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few
-minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in
-her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent
-had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as
-to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in
-Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
-distraction of his thoughts.
-
-At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few
-moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took
-leave.
-
-The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but
-Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings,
-followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her
-coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the
-world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light
-might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely
-thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he
-thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes
-sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination;
-for it was plain that he was that moment arrived--that moment alighted
-from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over
-the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly
-altered--what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was
-amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family!
-Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never
-had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What
-a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put
-his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account
-for it.
-
-They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and
-every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
-reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
-before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
-mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and
-seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she
-distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that
-one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
-was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind--in
-what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything,
-she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he
-felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was
-not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in
-seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
-composure.
-
-At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind
-aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
-
-They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
-ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of
-the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the
-valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading
-many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish
-of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk.
-With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round.
-It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which
-brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods,
-to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed
-it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene;
-it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the
-valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream,
-and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it.
-Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the
-bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
-who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only
-of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
-therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
-on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
-progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
-taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
-occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the
-man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this
-slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment
-was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy
-approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here
-less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before
-they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared
-for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with
-calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,
-she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea
-lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the
-turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw
-that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
-politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;
-but she had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when
-some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
-Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed,
-and she said no more.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
-her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
-This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared;
-and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the
-acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had
-revolted in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought
-she, “when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of
-fashion.”
-
-The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
-relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
-it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
-could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the
-connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and
-so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
-conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
-could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had
-some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
-attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
-expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
-his taste, or his good manners.
-
-The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy
-invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he
-chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time
-to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of
-the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
-walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder.
-Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment
-must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and
-continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what can
-it proceed? It cannot be for _me_--it cannot be for _my_ sake that his
-manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a
-change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me.”
-
-After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
-gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to
-the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious
-water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated
-in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found
-Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
-her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on
-together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him
-to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
-place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been
-very unexpected--“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that
-you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we
-left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected
-in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that
-business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
-before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They
-will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some
-who will claim an acquaintance with you--Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”
-
-Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
-driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last
-mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, _his_
-mind was not very differently engaged.
-
-“There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a
-pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow
-me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
-during your stay at Lambton?”
-
-The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great
-for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt
-that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her
-must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was
-satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
-him think really ill of her.
-
-They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth
-was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and
-pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of
-the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had
-reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a
-mile behind.
-
-He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not
-tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might
-have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
-there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected
-that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale
-with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her
-patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was
-over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go
-into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and
-they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the
-ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him
-walking slowly towards the house.
-
-The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
-pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.
-“He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle.
-
-“There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her
-aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
-say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I
-have seen nothing of it.”
-
-“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more
-than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
-attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.”
-
-“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham;
-or, rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features
-are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so
-disagreeable?”
-
-Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
-him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never
-seen him so pleasant as this morning.
-
-“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied
-her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him
-at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off
-his grounds.”
-
-Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but
-said nothing.
-
-“From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really
-should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
-anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.
-On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he
-speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance that would
-not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the
-good lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character!
-I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal
-master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every
-virtue.”
-
-Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
-his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in
-as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from
-his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
-construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
-Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
-confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
-transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming
-her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
-approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to
-the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
-to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of
-anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk they
-had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
-acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of a
-intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.
-
-The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
-much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing
-but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and, above
-all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.
-
-
-
-Chapter 44
-
-
-Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
-her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently
-resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.
-But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their
-arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the
-place with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn
-to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a
-carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in
-a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing
-the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her
-surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she
-expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment
-of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many
-of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on
-the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that
-there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a
-quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these
-newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of
-Elizabeth's feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite
-amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet,
-she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much
-in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally
-suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.
-
-She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked
-up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of
-inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.
-
-Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction
-took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new
-acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her
-being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;
-but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was
-only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from
-her beyond a monosyllable.
-
-Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though
-little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance
-womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there
-was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly
-unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as
-acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much
-relieved by discerning such different feelings.
-
-They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley
-was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her
-satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick
-step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All
-Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but had she still
-felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected
-cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He
-inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked
-and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
-
-To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage
-than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before
-them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just
-arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards
-each with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from
-those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew
-what it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little
-in doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was
-evident enough.
-
-Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the
-feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and
-to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she
-feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she
-endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley
-was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.
-
-In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh!
-how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in
-a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on
-former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion
-that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But,
-though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his
-behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look
-appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred
-between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point
-she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred
-ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a
-recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying
-more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed
-to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone
-which had something of real regret, that it “was a very long time since
-he had had the pleasure of seeing her;” and, before she could reply,
-he added, “It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of
-November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield.”
-
-Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards
-took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether
-_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,
-nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which
-gave them meaning.
-
-It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself;
-but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
-complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed
-from _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that
-the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however
-temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When
-she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion
-of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
-disgrace--when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the
-very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last
-lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage--the difference, the change was
-so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly
-restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company
-of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations
-at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
-self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance
-could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the
-acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw
-down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and
-Rosings.
-
-Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose
-to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing
-their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner
-at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a
-diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
-readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing
-how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
-acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however,
-that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than
-any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
-society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for
-her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.
-
-Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth
-again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to
-make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all
-this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on
-this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their
-visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some
-satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been
-little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her
-uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their
-favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
-
-But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was
-not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was
-much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;
-it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to
-interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.
-
-Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far
-as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could
-not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character
-from their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference
-to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known
-would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
-however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible
-that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four
-years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be
-hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of
-their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had
-nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not,
-it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town
-where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he
-was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.
-
-With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held
-there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the
-son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known
-fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind
-him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
-
-As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than
-the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not
-long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion;
-and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She
-certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she
-had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,
-that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his
-valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
-time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened
-into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in
-his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,
-which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,
-there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked.
-It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her,
-but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and
-acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations
-accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid
-her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most
-eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display
-of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only
-were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent
-on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much
-pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude--for to love, ardent
-love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a
-sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be
-exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him,
-she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how
-far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would
-be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her
-fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of
-his addresses.
-
-It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that
-such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the
-very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a
-late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled,
-by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that
-it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following
-morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when
-she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
-
-Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been
-renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting
-some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.
-
-
-
-Chapter 45
-
-
-Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
-originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her
-appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how
-much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.
-
-On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,
-whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows
-opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
-hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts
-which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
-
-In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there
-with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in
-London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with
-all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear
-of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior
-the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece,
-however, did her justice, and pitied her.
-
-By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and,
-on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,
-succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
-genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
-of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the
-others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
-Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she
-wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
-short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.
-
-Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,
-and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
-calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her
-from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an
-inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity
-of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every
-moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she
-feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether
-she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After
-sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss
-Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold
-inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal
-indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.
-
-The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
-entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the
-finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many
-a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been
-given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole
-party--for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the
-beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected
-them round the table.
-
-While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether
-she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the
-feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but
-a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
-regret that he came.
-
-He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other
-gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him
-only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to
-Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely
-resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more
-necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she
-saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,
-and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour
-when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive
-curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the
-smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
-objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions
-to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's
-entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he
-was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded
-as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
-Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the
-first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:
-
-“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire Militia removed from Meryton?
-They must be a great loss to _your_ family.”
-
-In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth
-instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the
-various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;
-but exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
-presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While
-she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened
-complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with
-confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what
-pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would
-have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
-Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed
-her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in
-Darcy's opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies
-and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected
-with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's
-meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy
-was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections
-her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very
-wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
-hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without
-meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
-Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern
-for the welfare of his friend.
-
-Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and
-as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
-Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
-to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
-recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
-had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have
-fixed them on her more and more cheerfully.
-
-Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above
-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss
-Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person,
-behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's
-recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not
-err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana
-without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When
-Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to
-him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.
-
-“How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she
-cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since
-the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing
-that we should not have known her again.”
-
-However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
-himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than
-her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
-summer.
-
-“For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never could
-see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
-brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose
-wants character--there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
-tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes,
-which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything
-extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do
-not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency
-without fashion, which is intolerable.”
-
-Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not
-the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
-wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
-success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a
-determination of making him speak, she continued:
-
-“I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
-were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
-your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_
-a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she
-seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
-one time.”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but _that_
-was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have
-considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”
-
-He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
-having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their
-visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them
-both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed,
-except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked
-of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit--of everything but
-himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of
-him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's
-beginning the subject.
-
-
-
-Chapter 46
-
-
-Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
-Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been
-renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
-on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the
-receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that
-it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as
-Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.
-
-They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and
-her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by
-themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been
-written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their
-little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;
-but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident
-agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:
-
-“Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a
-most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be
-assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia.
-An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed,
-from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland
-with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our
-surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am
-very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing
-to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
-Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step
-(and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is
-disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.
-Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How
-thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against
-him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about
-twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
-eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have
-passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect
-him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of
-their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor
-mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly
-know what I have written.”
-
-Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing
-what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the
-other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it
-had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.
-
-“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I
-wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my
-head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest
-Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you,
-and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham
-and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has
-taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone
-to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the
-day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short
-letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna
-Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W.
-never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was
-repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B.
-intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham,
-but no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney
-coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that
-is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road.
-I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that
-side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing
-them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but
-without any success--no such people had been seen to pass through. With
-the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions
-to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved
-for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our
-distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the
-worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make
-it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue
-their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a
-young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose
-her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that
-Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his
-head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to
-be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she
-exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And
-as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has
-anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of
-confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you
-have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the
-first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not
-so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I
-take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but
-circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to
-come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well,
-that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something
-more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel
-Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure
-I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any
-measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to
-be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my
-uncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will
-immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”
-
-“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat
-as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing
-a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was
-opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
-manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak,
-she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation,
-hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find
-Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not
-an instant to lose.”
-
-“Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than
-politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute;
-but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
-not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”
-
-Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how
-little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back
-the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless
-an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
-mistress home instantly.
-
-On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and
-looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
-or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
-“Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you
-present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.”
-
-“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There
-is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by
-some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”
-
-She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
-not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
-something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
-silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane,
-with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger
-sister has left all her friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into
-the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton.
-_You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no
-connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for ever.”
-
-Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in a yet
-more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what
-he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what I
-learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
-have happened. But it is all--all too late now.”
-
-“I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved--shocked. But is it
-certain--absolutely certain?”
-
-“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
-almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
-Scotland.”
-
-“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”
-
-“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
-immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But
-nothing can be done--I know very well that nothing can be done. How is
-such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
-not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!”
-
-Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
-
-“When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character--Oh! had I known what
-I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too
-much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”
-
-Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking
-up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air
-gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her
-power was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family
-weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
-wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
-consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It
-was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
-wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved
-him, as now, when all love must be vain.
-
-But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the
-humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed
-up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,
-Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of
-several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by
-the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke
-compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been
-long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my
-stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything
-could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to
-such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may
-seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I
-fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley
-to-day.”
-
-“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
-urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
-long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.”
-
-He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for
-her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
-reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
-one serious, parting look, went away.
-
-As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
-should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as
-had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
-retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full
-of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
-feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
-formerly have rejoiced in its termination.
-
-If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
-change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
-otherwise--if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
-unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on
-a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
-exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
-somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham,
-and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other
-less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him
-go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
-produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
-business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained
-a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
-could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
-of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first
-letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that
-Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry
-for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
-incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
-as this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose
-Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention
-of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue
-nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
-
-She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
-Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia
-wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one
-officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions
-raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been
-fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and
-mistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now
-feel it!
-
-She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to
-share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
-family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
-requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
-could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
-importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr.
-and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's
-account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them
-instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
-summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript
-of the last with trembling energy.--Though Lydia had never been a
-favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply
-afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the
-first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every
-assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked
-him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit,
-everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to
-be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?”
- cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for
-us; was it so?”
-
-“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
-_That_ is all settled.”
-
-“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
-prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
-truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”
-
-But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the
-hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
-to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
-impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
-business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
-be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their
-sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
-Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
-remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of
-the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
-have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
-
-
-
-Chapter 47
-
-
-“I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they
-drove from the town; “and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
-more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the
-matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should
-form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
-friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I
-am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
-would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
-regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is
-not adequate to the risk!”
-
-“Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.
-
-“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle's
-opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
-interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of
-Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe
-him capable of it?”
-
-“Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other
-neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I
-dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been
-the case?”
-
-“In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute proof
-that they are not gone to Scotland.”
-
-“Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such
-a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
-Barnet road.”
-
-“Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though
-for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is
-not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
-might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
-expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland.”
-
-“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
-marriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular
-friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
-to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He
-cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia--what attraction has she
-beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake,
-forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
-restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
-dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know
-nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
-other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has
-no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
-behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever
-seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would
-do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
-such a matter.”
-
-“But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him
-as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?”
-
-“It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with
-tears in her eyes, “that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such
-a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
-Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
-been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year,
-nay, for a twelvemonth--she has been given up to nothing but amusement
-and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle
-and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.
-Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
-flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing
-everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
-greater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
-naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
-person and address that can captivate a woman.”
-
-“But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very ill of
-Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.”
-
-“Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
-their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt,
-till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
-Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every
-sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is
-as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.”
-
-“And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity
-as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
-
-“I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the other day,
-of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at
-Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved
-with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
-circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to
-relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
-what he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
-reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He
-must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
-her.”
-
-“But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you
-and Jane seem so well to understand?”
-
-“Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw
-so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
-ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
-was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the
-case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
-necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could
-it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
-neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was
-settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening
-her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be
-in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a
-consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was far
-enough from my thoughts.”
-
-“When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
-suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”
-
-“Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either
-side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware
-that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first
-he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
-were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for
-the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular
-attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and
-wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment,
-who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.”
-
- * * * * *
-
-It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
-to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
-its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
-the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
-Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find
-no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
-
-They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night
-on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a
-comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
-by long expectations.
-
-The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing
-on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the
-carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their
-faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of
-capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
-
-Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss,
-hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her
-mother's apartment, immediately met her.
-
-Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
-eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been
-heard of the fugitives.
-
-“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
-everything will be well.”
-
-“Is my father in town?”
-
-“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”
-
-“And have you heard from him often?”
-
-“We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say
-that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
-particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write
-again till he had something of importance to mention.”
-
-“And my mother--how is she? How are you all?”
-
-“My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
-shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
-all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
-Heaven, are quite well.”
-
-“But you--how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much you
-must have gone through!”
-
-Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their
-conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
-engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach
-of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and
-thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
-
-When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth
-had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
-found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of
-good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet
-deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that
-every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,
-to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.
-
-Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'
-conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with
-tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous
-conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;
-blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the
-errors of her daughter must principally be owing.
-
-“If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to Brighton,
-with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia
-had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out
-of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
-side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been
-well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the
-charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child!
-And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham,
-wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become
-of us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his
-grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we
-shall do.”
-
-They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
-general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her
-that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.
-Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.
-
-“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “though it is right to be
-prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.
-It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we
-may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married,
-and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
-lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make
-him come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult
-together as to what is to be done.”
-
-“Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I
-could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,
-wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them
-marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but
-tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,
-after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting.
-Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my
-wits--and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me--such
-spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that
-I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to
-give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does
-not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I
-know you will contrive it all.”
-
-But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours
-in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well
-in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till
-dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on
-the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.
-
-Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
-occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
-oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
-tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
-better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could
-most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the
-subject.
-
-In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
-too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance
-before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The
-faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible
-in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger
-which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of
-fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was
-mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance
-of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:
-
-“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of.
-But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
-each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”
-
-Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
-“Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
-lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one
-false step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less
-brittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in
-her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.”
-
-Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed
-to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
-kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.
-
-In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
-half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of
-the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
-satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
-of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
-Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued
-the subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which
-I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel
-Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement
-took place? They must have seen them together for ever.”
-
-“Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
-especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
-grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
-_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had
-any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
-first got abroad, it hastened his journey.”
-
-“And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
-their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?”
-
-“Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of
-their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
-repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am
-inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.”
-
-“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
-doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?”
-
-“How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt
-a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him
-in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
-right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how
-imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
-triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter
-she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their
-being in love with each other, many weeks.”
-
-“But not before they went to Brighton?”
-
-“No, I believe not.”
-
-“And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does
-he know his real character?”
-
-“I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
-did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
-affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt;
-but I hope this may be false.”
-
-“Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,
-this could not have happened!”
-
-“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to expose
-the former faults of any person without knowing what their present
-feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.”
-
-“Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
-wife?”
-
-“He brought it with him for us to see.”
-
-Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
-were the contents:
-
-“MY DEAR HARRIET,
-
-“You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
-laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am
-missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who,
-I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I
-love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think
-it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my
-going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater,
-when I write to them and sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good joke
-it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to
-Pratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night.
-Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will
-dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall
-send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell
-Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are
-packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will
-drink to our good journey.
-
-“Your affectionate friend,
-
-“LYDIA BENNET.”
-
-“Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she had
-finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment!
-But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the subject of their
-journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her
-side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!”
-
-“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
-minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in
-such confusion!”
-
-“Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it who
-did not know the whole story before the end of the day?”
-
-“I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is
-very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to
-give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so
-much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen
-almost took from me my faculties.”
-
-“Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look
-well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety
-upon yourself alone.”
-
-“Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
-fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them.
-Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours
-of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn
-on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
-Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And
-Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
-condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters', if
-they should be of use to us.”
-
-“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps she
-_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see
-too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence
-insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.”
-
-She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had
-intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.
-
-“He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place where
-they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could
-be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the
-number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come
-with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a
-gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another might
-be remarked he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow
-discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
-determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible
-to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any
-other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone,
-and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding
-out even so much as this.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 48
-
-
-The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
-morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
-His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and
-dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.
-They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to
-send; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
-Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.
-
-When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
-information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
-to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could,
-to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only
-security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few
-days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable
-to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
-great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
-visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of
-cheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without
-reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,
-she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
-them.
-
-All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months
-before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
-to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with
-the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
-Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;
-and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the
-appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
-half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
-her sister's ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less
-of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come
-when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely
-despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of
-them.
-
-Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a
-letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately
-found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street;
-that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival,
-but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
-determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
-thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
-coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself
-did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
-eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr.
-Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised
-to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:
-
-“I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
-possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,
-whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to
-know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were
-anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a
-clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have
-nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in
-his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps,
-Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any
-other person.”
-
-Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her
-authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information
-of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never
-heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both
-of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of
-his companions in the ----shire might be able to give more information;
-and though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application
-was a something to look forward to.
-
-Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious
-part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters
-was the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
-whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every
-succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.
-
-But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for
-their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane
-had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
-she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his
-letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as
-follows:
-
-“MY DEAR SIR,
-
-“I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
-in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
-suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from
-Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself
-sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in
-your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because
-proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be
-wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune--or that
-may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the
-most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would
-have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to
-be lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte
-informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has
-proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time,
-for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think
-that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be
-guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be,
-you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined
-by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to
-whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that
-this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of
-all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says,
-will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads
-me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event
-of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved
-in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to
-console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child
-from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her
-own heinous offense.
-
-“I am, dear sir, etc., etc.”
-
-Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from
-Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
-It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he
-kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one
-living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he
-had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of
-particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore,
-who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the
-wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for
-secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for
-it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a
-very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a
-thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton.
-He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more
-formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars
-from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. “A gamester!”
- she cried. “This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”
-
-Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
-father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
-spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded
-to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and
-leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable
-for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did
-not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
-what her anxiety for his life had been before.
-
-“What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried. “Sure he
-will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
-and make him marry her, if he comes away?”
-
-As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she
-and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet
-came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
-journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
-Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His
-name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and
-the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their
-being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had
-received none since her return that could come from Pemberley.
-
-The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for
-the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
-fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
-tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware
-that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
-Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
-one sleepless night out of two.
-
-When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
-philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the
-habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him
-away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of
-it.
-
-It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that
-Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
-expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, “Say
-nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,
-and I ought to feel it.”
-
-“You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.
-
-“You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone
-to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have
-been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.
-It will pass away soon enough.”
-
-“Do you suppose them to be in London?”
-
-“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”
-
-“And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.
-
-“She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence there
-will probably be of some duration.”
-
-Then after a short silence he continued:
-
-“Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me
-last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.”
-
-They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's
-tea.
-
-“This is a parade,” he cried, “which does one good; it gives such an
-elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my
-library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as
-I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.”
-
-“I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If I should
-ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”
-
-“_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne
-for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and
-you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into
-my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be
-absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters.
-And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have
-spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.”
-
-Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
-
-“Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good
-girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of
-them.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 49
-
-
-Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
-together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper
-coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their
-mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,
-when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon,
-madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
-good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.”
-
-“What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”
-
-“Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don't you know
-there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here
-this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”
-
-Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They
-ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the
-library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of
-seeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the
-butler, who said:
-
-“If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the
-little copse.”
-
-Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once
-more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately
-pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.
-
-Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as
-Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,
-came up with him, and eagerly cried out:
-
-“Oh, papa, what news--what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”
-
-“Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”
-
-“Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad?”
-
-“What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the letter from
-his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”
-
-Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
-
-“Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself what it is
-about.”
-
-“Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.
-
-“MY DEAR BROTHER,
-
-“At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as,
-upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you
-left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of
-London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough
-to know they are discovered. I have seen them both--”
-
-“Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are married!”
-
-Elizabeth read on:
-
-“I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there
-was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the
-engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will
-not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure
-to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand
-pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and
-my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her,
-during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions
-which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with,
-as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by
-express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You
-will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's
-circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be.
-The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there
-will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to
-settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude
-will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout
-the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to
-Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the
-smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at
-Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as
-fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it
-best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope
-you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as
-anything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,
-
-“EDW. GARDINER.”
-
-“Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it be
-possible that he will marry her?”
-
-“Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said her
-sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”
-
-“And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.
-
-“No; but it must be done soon.”
-
-Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time before he
-wrote.
-
-“Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write immediately.
-Consider how important every moment is in such a case.”
-
-“Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble
-yourself.”
-
-“I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”
-
-And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.
-
-“And may I ask--” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must be
-complied with.”
-
-“Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”
-
-“And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!”
-
-“Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there
-are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money
-your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever
-to pay him.”
-
-“Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”
-
-“I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a
-temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am
-gone.”
-
-“That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred to me
-before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!
-it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has
-distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.”
-
-“No,” said her father; “Wickham's a fool if he takes her with a farthing
-less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him,
-in the very beginning of our relationship.”
-
-“Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
-repaid?”
-
-Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued
-silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the
-library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.
-
-“And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as they
-were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be
-thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,
-and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”
-
-“I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he certainly would
-not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind
-uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten
-thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children
-of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand
-pounds?”
-
-“If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been,” said
-Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall
-exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has
-not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never
-be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal
-protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as
-years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is
-actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,
-she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
-first sees my aunt!”
-
-“We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,” said
-Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to
-marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of
-thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
-they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in
-time make their past imprudence forgotten.”
-
-“Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither you, nor
-I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.”
-
-It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood
-perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,
-therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make
-it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly
-replied:
-
-“Just as you please.”
-
-“May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?”
-
-“Take whatever you like, and get away.”
-
-Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went up stairs
-together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication
-would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news,
-the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As
-soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon
-married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its
-exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she
-had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter
-would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her
-felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
-
-“My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She will
-be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen!
-My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage
-everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the
-clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about
-them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him
-how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,
-Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear
-Lydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!”
-
-Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of
-these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
-Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.
-
-“For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a great
-measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to
-assist Mr. Wickham with money.”
-
-“Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it but
-her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children
-must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have
-ever had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy!
-In a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well
-it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in
-such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and
-you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
-afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”
-
-She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and
-cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had
-not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her
-father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed,
-would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite
-so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.
-
-“I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and tell the
-good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call
-on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage.
-An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do
-anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you
-heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall
-all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.”
-
-Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her
-congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took
-refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.
-
-Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was
-no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in
-looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could
-be justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had
-feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had
-gained.
-
-
-
-Chapter 50
-
-
-Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that,
-instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for
-the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived
-him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that
-respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever
-of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of
-prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be
-her husband might then have rested in its proper place.
-
-He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone
-should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he
-was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance,
-and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.
-
-When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly
-useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join
-in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow
-and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters
-successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.
-Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he
-would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then
-too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her
-husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their
-income.
-
-Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and
-the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the
-latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with
-regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet
-could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In
-terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother,
-though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
-approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the
-engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed
-that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would
-be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present
-arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the
-hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket
-allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her
-through her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within
-that sum.
-
-That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was
-another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as
-little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports
-of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he
-naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon
-dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick
-in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he
-was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any
-message to her.
-
-The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate
-speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent
-philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage
-of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the
-happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant
-farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the
-good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from
-all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit
-in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery
-was considered certain.
-
-It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this
-happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in
-spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her
-triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object
-of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of
-accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those
-attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and
-servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a
-proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering
-what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and
-importance.
-
-“Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit it--or the
-great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is
-too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for
-Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”
-
-Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the
-servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: “Mrs.
-Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and
-daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this
-neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the
-impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.”
-
-A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It
-soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,
-that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his
-daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of
-affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend
-it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable
-resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her
-marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe
-possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new
-clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of
-shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they
-took place.
-
-Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of
-the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for
-her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the
-proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its
-unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the
-spot.
-
-She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were
-few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;
-but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's
-frailty would have mortified her so much--not, however, from any fear
-of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate,
-there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been
-concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that
-Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other
-objection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the
-nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.
-
-From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The
-wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his
-feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a
-blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she
-hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no
-longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there
-seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that
-she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they
-should meet.
-
-What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the
-proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now
-have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she
-doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal,
-there must be a triumph.
-
-She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in
-disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and
-temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It
-was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease
-and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved;
-and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she
-must have received benefit of greater importance.
-
-But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what
-connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and
-precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
-family.
-
-How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,
-she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could
-belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions
-were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
-
- * * * * *
-
-Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
-acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to
-promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties
-that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal
-purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved
-on quitting the militia.
-
-“It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon as
-his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in
-considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on
-his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into
-the regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some who
-are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an
-ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It
-is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He
-promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each
-have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have
-written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements,
-and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham
-in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I
-have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying
-similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin
-a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I
-hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions,
-and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,
-unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.
-Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she
-leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to
-you and her mother.--Yours, etc.,
-
-“E. GARDINER.”
-
-Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal
-from the ----shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet
-was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the North,
-just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company,
-for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
-Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a
-pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted
-with everybody, and had so many favourites.
-
-“She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite shocking
-to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she
-likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s
-regiment.”
-
-His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being
-admitted into her family again before she set off for the North,
-received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,
-who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and
-consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,
-urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her
-and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was
-prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their
-mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show
-her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the
-North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent
-his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as
-the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was
-surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and
-had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would
-have been the last object of her wishes.
-
-
-
-Chapter 51
-
-
-Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her
-probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to
-meet them at ----, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their
-arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially,
-who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had she
-been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister
-must endure.
-
-They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive
-them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to
-the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
-anxious, uneasy.
-
-Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and
-she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and
-welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile,
-to Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an
-alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.
-
-Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite
-so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely
-opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was
-enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet
-was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy,
-and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their
-congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly
-round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and
-observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been
-there.
-
-Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners
-were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been
-exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he
-claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had
-not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,
-resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence
-of an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the
-two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour.
-
-There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither
-of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near
-Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,
-with a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her
-replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the
-world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led
-voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for
-the world.
-
-“Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went away;
-it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things
-enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure
-I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I
-thought it would be very good fun if I was.”
-
-Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked
-expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of
-which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, “Oh! mamma, do the
-people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not;
-and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he
-should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took
-off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that
-he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”
-
-Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;
-and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to
-the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with
-anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say
-to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
-lower, because I am a married woman.”
-
-It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment
-from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good
-spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and
-all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham”
- by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her
-ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
-
-“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast
-room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I
-am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half
-my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get
-husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.”
-
-“Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't
-at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”
-
-“Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
-things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We
-shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some
-balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.”
-
-“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.
-
-“And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters
-behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the
-winter is over.”
-
-“I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not
-particularly like your way of getting husbands.”
-
-Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham
-had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join
-his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
-
-No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and
-she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and
-having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to
-all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did
-think, than such as did not.
-
-Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected
-to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her
-present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that
-their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather
-than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring
-for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain
-that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and
-if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity
-of having a companion.
-
-Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every
-occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every
-thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on
-the first of September, than any body else in the country.
-
-One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two
-elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:
-
-“Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You
-were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you
-curious to hear how it was managed?”
-
-“No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too little said
-on the subject.”
-
-“La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were
-married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in
-that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven
-o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others
-were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in
-such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to
-put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was
-my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as
-if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in
-ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed
-to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”
-
-“Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never
-be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt
-were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe
-me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a
-fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was
-rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so
-just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon
-business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once
-they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I
-did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we
-were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he
-came back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However,
-I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the
-wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.”
-
-“Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
-
-“Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious
-me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised
-them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!”
-
-“If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the
-subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”
-
-“Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; “we will
-ask you no questions.”
-
-“Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell you
-all, and then Wickham would be angry.”
-
-On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her
-power, by running away.
-
-But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least
-it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at
-her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,
-where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.
-Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her
-brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as
-placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She
-could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,
-wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what
-Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
-intended.
-
-“You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must be
-to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively
-speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such
-a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,
-for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems
-to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with
-ignorance.”
-
-“Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, as she finished
-the letter; “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable
-manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it
-out.”
-
-Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
-Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad
-of it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any
-satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
-
-
-
-Chapter 52
-
-
-Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as
-soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it
-than, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to
-be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to
-be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not
-contain a denial.
-
-“Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.
-
-“MY DEAR NIECE,
-
-“I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning
-to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will not comprise
-what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your
-application; I did not expect it from _you_. Don't think me angry,
-however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such
-inquiries to be necessary on _your_ side. If you do not choose to
-understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised
-as I am--and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned
-would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really
-innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit.
-
-“On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most
-unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several
-hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so
-dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr.
-Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were,
-and that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly,
-Lydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day
-after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for
-them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to
-himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to
-make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide
-in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and
-confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private
-actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He
-called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy
-an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he _had another_
-motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days
-in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to
-direct his search, which was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness
-of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us.
-
-“There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago
-governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause
-of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large
-house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting
-lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with
-Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to
-town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he
-wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and
-corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found.
-Wickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had
-she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up
-their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the
-wished-for direction. They were in ---- street. He saw Wickham, and
-afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he
-acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful
-situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed
-on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But
-he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared
-for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear
-of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or
-other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings,
-it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which,
-in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never
-been _his_ design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment,
-on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and
-scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her
-own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as
-to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He
-must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
-nothing to live on.
-
-“Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though
-Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able
-to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by
-marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still
-cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in
-some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely
-to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief.
-
-“They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of
-course wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be
-reasonable.
-
-“Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was to
-make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch
-street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be
-seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was
-still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge
-your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your
-uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the
-departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next
-day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business.
-
-“On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home,
-and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together.
-
-“They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not all
-settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to
-Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that
-obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been
-accused of many faults at different times, but _this_ is the true one.
-Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and
-I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your
-uncle would most readily have settled the whole.
-
-“They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either
-the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle
-was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his
-niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,
-which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter
-this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation
-that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where
-it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane
-at most.
-
-“You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young
-people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably
-more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own
-settled upon _her_, and his commission purchased. The reason why all
-this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It
-was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that
-Wickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he
-had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth
-in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_ reserve,
-can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking,
-my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would
-never have yielded, if we had not given him credit for _another
-interest_ in the affair.
-
-“When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who
-were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in
-London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were
-then to receive the last finish.
-
-“I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which
-you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not
-afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant
-admission to the house. _He_ was exactly what he had been, when I
-knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was
-satisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not
-perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming
-home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell
-you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most
-serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had
-done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she
-heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was
-sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and
-Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her.
-
-“Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,
-attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave
-town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my
-dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold
-enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,
-in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His
-understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little
-more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach
-him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
-slyness seems the fashion.
-
-“Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not
-punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy
-till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little
-pair of ponies, would be the very thing.
-
-“But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half
-hour.
-
-“Yours, very sincerely,
-
-“M. GARDINER.”
-
-The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,
-in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the
-greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had
-produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
-match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too
-great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
-pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
-He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all
-the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
-supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and
-despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason
-with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to
-avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had
-done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her
-heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly
-checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity
-was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her--for
-a woman who had already refused him--as able to overcome a sentiment so
-natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law
-of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had,
-to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had
-given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary
-stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been
-wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and
-though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she
-could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist
-his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially
-concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were
-under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They
-owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh!
-how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever
-encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For
-herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause
-of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself.
-She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It
-was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some
-pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she
-and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted
-between Mr. Darcy and herself.
-
-She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's
-approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
-overtaken by Wickham.
-
-“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” said he,
-as he joined her.
-
-“You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not follow
-that the interruption must be unwelcome.”
-
-“I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and
-now we are better.”
-
-“True. Are the others coming out?”
-
-“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
-Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that
-you have actually seen Pemberley.”
-
-She replied in the affirmative.
-
-“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much
-for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the
-old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of
-me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.”
-
-“Yes, she did.”
-
-“And what did she say?”
-
-“That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned
-out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely
-misrepresented.”
-
-“Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
-silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:
-
-“I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
-several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”
-
-“Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said
-Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at this
-time of year.”
-
-“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I
-understood from the Gardiners that you had.”
-
-“Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”
-
-“And do you like her?”
-
-“Very much.”
-
-“I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year
-or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad
-you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.”
-
-“I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”
-
-“Did you go by the village of Kympton?”
-
-“I do not recollect that we did.”
-
-“I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A
-most delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited
-me in every respect.”
-
-“How should you have liked making sermons?”
-
-“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty,
-and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to
-repine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The
-quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas
-of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the
-circumstance, when you were in Kent?”
-
-“I have heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was
-left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.”
-
-“You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the
-first, you may remember.”
-
-“I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not
-so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually
-declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business
-had been compromised accordingly.”
-
-“You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember
-what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.”
-
-They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast
-to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke him,
-she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:
-
-“Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let
-us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one
-mind.”
-
-She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though
-he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.
-
-
-
-Chapter 53
-
-
-Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he
-never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,
-by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she
-had said enough to keep him quiet.
-
-The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was
-forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means
-entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to
-continue at least a twelvemonth.
-
-“Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”
-
-“Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”
-
-“Write to me very often, my dear.”
-
-“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for
-writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to
-do.”
-
-Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He
-smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.
-
-“He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of
-the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to
-us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas
-himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”
-
-The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.
-
-“I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with
-one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”
-
-“This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,” said
-Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are
-single.”
-
-“It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married,
-but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If
-that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.”
-
-But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly
-relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an
-article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper
-at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her
-master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several
-weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and
-smiled and shook her head by turns.
-
-“Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for Mrs.
-Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the better. Not
-that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am
-sure _I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome
-to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?
-But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to
-mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”
-
-“You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was in
-Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose
-to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He
-comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was
-going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on
-Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”
-
-Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing
-colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to
-Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:
-
-“I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present
-report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from
-any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that
-I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect
-me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes
-alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of
-_myself_, but I dread other people's remarks.”
-
-Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in
-Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no
-other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial
-to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming
-there _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come
-without it.
-
-“Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man cannot
-come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this
-speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.”
-
-In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her
-feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily
-perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,
-more unequal, than she had often seen them.
-
-The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,
-about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
-
-“As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “you
-will wait on him of course.”
-
-“No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I
-went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in
-nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again.”
-
-His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention
-would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to
-Netherfield.
-
-“'Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society,
-let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours
-in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back
-again.”
-
-“Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait
-on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I
-am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will
-make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for
-him.”
-
-Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
-husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her
-neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before
-_they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,--
-
-“I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her sister. “It
-would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can
-hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;
-but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she
-says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!”
-
-“I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth; “but it
-is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction
-of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have
-always so much.”
-
-Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,
-contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety
-and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted
-the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;
-hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his
-arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window,
-enter the paddock and ride towards the house.
-
-Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely
-kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went
-to the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down
-again by her sister.
-
-“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it be?”
-
-“Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not
-know.”
-
-“La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be with
-him before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man.”
-
-“Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of
-Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must
-say that I hate the very sight of him.”
-
-Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little
-of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness
-which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time
-after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable
-enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their
-mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be
-civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either
-of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be
-suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.
-Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.
-To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused,
-and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive
-information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted
-for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an
-interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as
-what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his
-coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,
-was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered
-behaviour in Derbyshire.
-
-The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a
-minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to
-her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and
-wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.
-
-“Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be early
-enough for expectation.”
-
-She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to
-lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of
-her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little
-paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the
-gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with
-tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any
-symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
-
-Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down
-again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She
-had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and,
-she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as
-she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's
-presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but
-not an improbable, conjecture.
-
-Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period
-saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.
-Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,
-especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of
-her curtsey and address to his friend.
-
-Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter
-the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy,
-was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill
-applied.
-
-Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question
-which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He
-was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but
-it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends,
-when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without
-bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist
-the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often
-found him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but
-the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when
-they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry
-with herself for being so.
-
-“Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he come?”
-
-She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to
-him she had hardly courage to speak.
-
-She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.
-
-“It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs. Bennet.
-
-He readily agreed to it.
-
-“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say
-you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope
-it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,
-since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my
-own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have
-seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know;
-though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,
-George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a
-syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything.
-It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to
-make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”
-
-Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth
-dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could
-not tell.
-
-“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,”
- continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very
-hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to
-Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay
-I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have
-heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the
-regulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so
-many as he deserves.”
-
-Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such
-misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,
-however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually
-done before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in
-the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.
-
-“When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her mother,
-“I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr.
-Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and
-will save all the best of the covies for you.”
-
-Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
-attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had
-flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be
-hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt
-that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for
-moments of such painful confusion.
-
-“The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more to
-be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure
-that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either
-one or the other again!”
-
-Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
-compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing
-how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her
-former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;
-but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He
-found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and
-as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no
-difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded
-that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,
-that she did not always know when she was silent.
-
-When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her
-intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at
-Longbourn in a few days time.
-
-“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for when
-you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with
-us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure
-you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep
-your engagement.”
-
-Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of
-his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.
-
-Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine
-there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did
-not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man
-on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride
-of one who had ten thousand a year.
-
-
-
-Chapter 54
-
-
-As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;
-or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that
-must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.
-
-“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said she,
-“did he come at all?”
-
-She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
-
-“He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when
-he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If
-he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will
-think no more about him.”
-
-Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach
-of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which showed her
-better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.
-
-“Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly
-easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by
-his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly
-seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent
-acquaintance.”
-
-“Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh, Jane,
-take care.”
-
-“My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now?”
-
-“I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with
-you as ever.”
-
- * * * * *
-
-They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in
-the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good
-humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had
-revived.
-
-On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two
-who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality
-as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the
-dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take
-the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by
-her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore
-to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to
-hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was
-decided. He placed himself by her.
-
-Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend.
-He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that
-Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes
-likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing
-alarm.
-
-His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an
-admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded
-Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his
-own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the
-consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It
-gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in
-no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table
-could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little
-such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to
-advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but
-she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and
-cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,
-made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;
-and she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell
-him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the
-family.
-
-She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of
-bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away
-without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than
-the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious
-and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the
-gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her
-uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all
-her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.
-
-“If he does not come to me, _then_,” said she, “I shall give him up for
-ever.”
-
-The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
-answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,
-where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,
-in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her
-which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of
-the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper:
-
-“The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;
-do we?”
-
-Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with
-her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough
-to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for
-being so silly!
-
-“A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to
-expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not
-protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?
-There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!”
-
-She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup
-himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:
-
-“Is your sister at Pemberley still?”
-
-“Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”
-
-“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”
-
-“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,
-these three weeks.”
-
-She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse
-with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for
-some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering
-to Elizabeth again, he walked away.
-
-When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies
-all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him,
-when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her
-mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated
-with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.
-They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had
-nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side
-of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
-
-Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to
-supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the
-others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
-
-“Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, “What
-say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,
-I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The
-venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said they never saw so
-fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the
-Lucases' last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges
-were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French
-cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater
-beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And
-what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her
-at Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good
-a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,
-and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of
-Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at
-last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy
-humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at
-not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.
-
-“It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. “The
-party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we
-may often meet again.”
-
-Elizabeth smiled.
-
-“Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me.
-I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an
-agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am
-perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had
-any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed
-with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally
-pleasing, than any other man.”
-
-“You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me smile, and
-are provoking me to it every moment.”
-
-“How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”
-
-“And how impossible in others!”
-
-“But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
-acknowledge?”
-
-“That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to
-instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive
-me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 55
-
-
-A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His
-friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in
-ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably
-good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many
-expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.
-
-“Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.”
-
-He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would
-give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.
-
-“Can you come to-morrow?”
-
-Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was
-accepted with alacrity.
-
-He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of them
-dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing
-gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:
-
-“My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is
-come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss
-Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss
-Lizzy's hair.”
-
-“We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say Kitty is
-forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.”
-
-“Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!
-Where is your sash, my dear?”
-
-But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down
-without one of her sisters.
-
-The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the
-evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his
-custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of
-the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at
-Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any
-impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last
-Kitty did, she very innocently said, “What is the matter mamma? What do
-you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?”
-
-“Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat still
-five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she
-suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here, my love, I want to
-speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look
-at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her
-entreaty that _she_ would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs.
-Bennet half-opened the door and called out:
-
-“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”
-
-Elizabeth was forced to go.
-
-“We may as well leave them by themselves you know;” said her mother, as
-soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going up stairs to sit in
-my dressing-room.”
-
-Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
-quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned
-into the drawing-room.
-
-Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every
-thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His
-ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their
-evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the
-mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command
-of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.
-
-He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went
-away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.
-Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.
-
-After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed
-between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in
-the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy
-returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably
-persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's
-concurrence.
-
-Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent
-the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more
-agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption
-or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into
-silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the
-other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;
-and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get
-every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter
-to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;
-for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be
-wanted to counteract her mother's schemes.
-
-But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she
-saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother
-had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her
-sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in
-earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of
-both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would
-have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but _hers_ she
-thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
-Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as
-well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few
-words to her sister, ran out of the room.
-
-Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give
-pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest
-emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.
-
-“'Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!
-why is not everybody as happy?”
-
-Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth,
-a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of
-kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not
-allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be
-said for the present.
-
-“I must go instantly to my mother;” she cried. “I would not on any
-account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it
-from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to
-know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear
-family! how shall I bear so much happiness!”
-
-She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the
-card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
-
-Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease
-with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many
-previous months of suspense and vexation.
-
-“And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend's anxious
-circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the
-happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!”
-
-In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her
-father had been short and to the purpose.
-
-“Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door.
-
-“With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.”
-
-He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes
-and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed
-her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with
-great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen
-to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;
-and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his
-expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for
-basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of
-Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and
-himself.
-
-It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of
-Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as
-made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped
-her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or
-speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,
-though she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when
-Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed
-how really happy he was.
-
-Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their
-visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he
-turned to his daughter, and said:
-
-“Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”
-
-Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
-goodness.
-
-“You are a good girl;” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in
-thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your
-doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are
-each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so
-easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will
-always exceed your income.”
-
-“I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be
-unpardonable in me.”
-
-“Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what are you
-talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely
-more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so
-happy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it
-would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not
-be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when
-he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was
-that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
-ever was seen!”
-
-Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her
-favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger
-sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness
-which she might in future be able to dispense.
-
-Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty
-begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
-
-Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;
-coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after
-supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough
-detested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself
-obliged to accept.
-
-Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for
-while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else;
-but she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours
-of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he
-always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of
-her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of
-relief.
-
-“He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me that he
-was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed
-it possible.”
-
-“I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account for
-it?”
-
-“It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to
-his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have
-chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,
-as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will
-learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we
-can never be what we once were to each other.”
-
-“That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I ever
-heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again
-the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard.”
-
-“Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,
-he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being
-indifferent would have prevented his coming down again!”
-
-“He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his
-modesty.”
-
-This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and
-the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased
-to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for,
-though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she
-knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
-
-“I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!” cried
-Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed
-above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but
-such another man for you!”
-
-“If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as
-you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your
-happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very
-good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.”
-
-The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a
-secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips,
-and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her
-neighbours in Meryton.
-
-The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the
-world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,
-they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.
-
-
-
-Chapter 56
-
-
-One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been
-formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the
-dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the
-sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up
-the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
-equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses
-were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who
-preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
-somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid
-the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the
-shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three
-continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown
-open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
-
-They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
-astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.
-Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even
-inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
-
-She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no
-other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the
-head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her
-name to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of
-introduction had been made.
-
-Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such
-high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting
-for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,
-
-“I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your
-mother.”
-
-Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
-
-“And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.”
-
-“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady Catherine.
-“She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married,
-and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man
-who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.”
-
-“You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after a short
-silence.
-
-“It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I
-assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's.”
-
-“This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in
-summer; the windows are full west.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then
-added:
-
-“May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and
-Mrs. Collins well.”
-
-“Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”
-
-Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from
-Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no
-letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.
-
-Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some
-refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,
-declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,
-
-“Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness
-on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you
-will favour me with your company.”
-
-“Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about the
-different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.”
-
-Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
-attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the
-hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
-drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent
-looking rooms, walked on.
-
-Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
-waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk
-that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for
-conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and
-disagreeable.
-
-“How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she looked in
-her face.
-
-As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following
-manner:--
-
-“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my
-journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I
-come.”
-
-Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
-
-“Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account
-for the honour of seeing you here.”
-
-“Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to
-know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may
-choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been
-celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such
-moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most
-alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your
-sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that
-you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon
-afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I
-_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him
-so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved
-on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to
-you.”
-
-“If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth, colouring
-with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming
-so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?”
-
-“At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.”
-
-“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said Elizabeth
-coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report
-is in existence.”
-
-“If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
-industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a
-report is spread abroad?”
-
-“I never heard that it was.”
-
-“And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?”
-
-“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may
-ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”
-
-“This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has
-he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”
-
-“Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”
-
-“It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his
-reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,
-have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You
-may have drawn him in.”
-
-“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”
-
-“Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such
-language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,
-and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”
-
-“But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this,
-ever induce me to be explicit.”
-
-“Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
-presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is
-engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?”
-
-“Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will
-make an offer to me.”
-
-Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
-
-“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,
-they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of
-_his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned
-the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would
-be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of
-inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to
-the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his
-tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of
-propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest
-hours he was destined for his cousin?”
-
-“Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is
-no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not
-be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to
-marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the
-marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither
-by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make
-another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”
-
-“Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes,
-Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or
-friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will
-be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him.
-Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned
-by any of us.”
-
-“These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife of Mr.
-Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily
-attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause
-to repine.”
-
-“Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude
-for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that
-score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came
-here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will
-I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's
-whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.”
-
-“_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;
-but it will have no effect on me.”
-
-“I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my
-nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal
-side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,
-honourable, and ancient--though untitled--families. Their fortune on
-both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of
-every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them?
-The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections,
-or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you
-were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in
-which you have been brought up.”
-
-“In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that
-sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are
-equal.”
-
-“True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother?
-Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their
-condition.”
-
-“Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew does
-not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.”
-
-“Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”
-
-Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
-Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a
-moment's deliberation:
-
-“I am not.”
-
-Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
-
-“And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?”
-
-“I will make no promise of the kind.”
-
-“Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more
-reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that
-I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the
-assurance I require.”
-
-“And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into
-anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry
-your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their
-marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would
-my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?
-Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have
-supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the
-application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if
-you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your
-nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell;
-but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
-therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.”
-
-“Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
-objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am
-no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous
-elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a
-patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is
-such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his
-late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what are
-you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”
-
-“You can now have nothing further to say,” she resentfully answered.
-“You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to
-the house.”
-
-And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned
-back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
-
-“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!
-Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you
-must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”
-
-“Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.”
-
-“You are then resolved to have him?”
-
-“I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,
-which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without
-reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.”
-
-“It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the
-claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in
-the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.”
-
-“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth, “have any
-possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either
-would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the
-resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former
-_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's
-concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in
-the scorn.”
-
-“And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well.
-I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your
-ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you
-reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.”
-
-In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of
-the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, “I take no leave
-of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve
-no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.”
-
-Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
-ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She
-heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother
-impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady
-Catherine would not come in again and rest herself.
-
-“She did not choose it,” said her daughter, “she would go.”
-
-“She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously
-civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were
-well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through
-Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had
-nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?”
-
-Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
-acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.
-
-
-
-Chapter 57
-
-
-The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw
-Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for many
-hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it
-appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,
-for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.
-Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report
-of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;
-till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,
-and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
-expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply
-the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her
-sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours
-at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the
-Collinses, the report, she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine), had
-only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked
-forward to as possible at some future time.
-
-In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help
-feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting
-in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to
-prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate
-an application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar
-representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared
-not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his
-aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose
-that he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it
-was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,
-whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would
-address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would
-probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak
-and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.
-
-If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often
-seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might
-settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity
-unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
-Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to
-Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.
-
-“If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his
-friend within a few days,” she added, “I shall know how to understand
-it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his
-constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might
-have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him
-at all.”
-
- * * * * *
-
-The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had
-been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same
-kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and
-Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject.
-
-The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her
-father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
-
-“Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my room.”
-
-She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to
-tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner
-connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it
-might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the
-consequent explanations.
-
-She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He
-then said,
-
-“I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
-exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its
-contents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink
-of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.”
-
-The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous
-conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;
-and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained
-himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to
-herself; when her father continued:
-
-“You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters
-as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the
-name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.”
-
-“From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?”
-
-“Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
-congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of
-which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping
-Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says
-on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: 'Having thus
-offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on
-this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another;
-of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
-Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after
-her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may
-be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in
-this land.'
-
-“Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? 'This young
-gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of
-mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive
-patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin
-Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate
-closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be
-inclined to take immediate advantage of.'
-
-“Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:
-
-“'My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine
-that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with
-a friendly eye.'
-
-“_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
-surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man within
-the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie
-more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any
-woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his
-life! It is admirable!”
-
-Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force
-one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so
-little agreeable to her.
-
-“Are you not diverted?”
-
-“Oh! yes. Pray read on.”
-
-“'After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last
-night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she
-felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some
-family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her
-consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty
-to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and
-her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
-hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.' Mr.
-Collins moreover adds, 'I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad
-business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their
-living together before the marriage took place should be so generally
-known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain
-from declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young
-couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an
-encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should
-very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them,
-as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their
-names to be mentioned in your hearing.' That is his notion of Christian
-forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's
-situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you
-look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _missish_,
-I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we
-live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our
-turn?”
-
-“Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so
-strange!”
-
-“Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man
-it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_
-pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
-writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any
-consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving
-him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and
-hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine
-about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”
-
-To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had
-been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by
-his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her
-feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she
-would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by
-what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but
-wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of
-his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much.
-
-
-
-Chapter 58
-
-
-Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as
-Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy
-with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's
-visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time
-to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat
-in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed
-their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the
-habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five
-set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others
-to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy
-were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty
-was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a
-desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
-
-They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon
-Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,
-when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the
-moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was
-high, she immediately said:
-
-“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving
-relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I
-can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my
-poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to
-acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest
-of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”
-
-“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise
-and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a
-mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner
-was so little to be trusted.”
-
-“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to
-me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could
-not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,
-in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced
-you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the
-sake of discovering them.”
-
-“If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone.
-That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other
-inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your
-_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought
-only of _you_.”
-
-Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,
-her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your
-feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_
-affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence
-me on this subject for ever.”
-
-Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of
-his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not
-very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone
-so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make
-her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The
-happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never
-felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
-warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth
-been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the
-expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him;
-but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of
-feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his
-affection every moment more valuable.
-
-They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to
-be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She
-soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
-to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through
-London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the
-substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on
-every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension,
-peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that
-such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise
-from her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her
-ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
-
-“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself
-to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that,
-had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have
-acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.”
-
-Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough
-of my frankness to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so
-abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all
-your relations.”
-
-“What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
-accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my
-behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was
-unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
-
-“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that
-evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,
-will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved
-in civility.”
-
-“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I
-then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of
-it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your
-reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a
-more gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can
-scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time,
-I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
-
-“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an
-impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such
-a way.”
-
-“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper
-feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never
-forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible
-way that would induce you to accept me.”
-
-“Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at
-all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”
-
-Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make you
-think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its
-contents?”
-
-She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her
-former prejudices had been removed.
-
-“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was
-necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part
-especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the
-power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might
-justly make you hate me.”
-
-“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the
-preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my
-opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
-changed as that implies.”
-
-“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly
-calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a
-dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
-
-“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The
-adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings
-of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now
-so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant
-circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some
-of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you
-pleasure.”
-
-“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your
-retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment
-arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of
-innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude
-which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish
-being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I
-was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I
-was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
-Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt
-by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all
-that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught
-me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family
-circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least
-to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I
-was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been
-but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You
-taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you,
-I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception.
-You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman
-worthy of being pleased.”
-
-“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”
-
-“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be
-wishing, expecting my addresses.”
-
-“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure
-you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me
-wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?”
-
-“Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take
-a proper direction.”
-
-“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at
-Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”
-
-“No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”
-
-“Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.
-My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I
-confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.”
-
-“My object then,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every civility in
-my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to
-obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you
-see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes
-introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an
-hour after I had seen you.”
-
-He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her
-disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to
-the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of
-following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed
-before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness
-there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must
-comprehend.
-
-She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to
-each, to be dwelt on farther.
-
-After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know
-anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that
-it was time to be at home.
-
-“What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which
-introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with
-their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of
-it.
-
-“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.
-
-“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”
-
-“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And
-though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much
-the case.
-
-“On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a
-confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I
-told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his
-affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had
-the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself
-mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent
-to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was
-unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”
-
-Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his
-friend.
-
-“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him
-that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”
-
-“From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits
-which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.”
-
-“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to
-him.”
-
-“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had
-prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but
-his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess
-one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not
-allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months
-last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was
-angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained
-in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me
-now.”
-
-Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful
-friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked
-herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at,
-and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness
-of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he
-continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they
-parted.
-
-
-
-Chapter 59
-
-
-“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a question
-which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room,
-and from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to
-say in reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own
-knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything
-else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.
-
-The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The
-acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.
-Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;
-and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy
-than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,
-there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt
-in the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no
-one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a
-dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
-
-At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far
-from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.
-
-“You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,
-you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”
-
-“This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and
-I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am
-in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are
-engaged.”
-
-Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much
-you dislike him.”
-
-“You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I
-did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as
-these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever
-remember it myself.”
-
-Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
-seriously assured her of its truth.
-
-“Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,” cried
-Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you
-certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be
-happy with him?”
-
-“There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that
-we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,
-Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?”
-
-“Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more
-delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you
-really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than
-marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
-to do?”
-
-“Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I
-tell you all.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am
-afraid you will be angry.”
-
-“My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let
-me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me
-how long you have loved him?”
-
-“It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.
-But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds
-at Pemberley.”
-
-Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
-desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances
-of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
-further to wish.
-
-“Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as myself.
-I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you,
-I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your
-husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But
-Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
-tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know
-of it to another, not to you.”
-
-Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling
-to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made
-her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer
-conceal from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,
-and half the night spent in conversation.
-
- * * * * *
-
-“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next
-morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with
-our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always
-coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or
-other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?
-Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's
-way.”
-
-Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet
-was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
-epithet.
-
-As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and
-shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;
-and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes
-hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?”
-
-“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to walk
-to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has
-never seen the view.”
-
-“It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I am
-sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?” Kitty owned that
-she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see
-the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went
-up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:
-
-“I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
-disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is
-all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking
-to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to
-inconvenience.”
-
-During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be
-asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the
-application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother
-would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur
-would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she
-were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it
-was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit
-to her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear
-the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
-disapprobation.
-
- * * * * *
-
-In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw
-Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was
-extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to
-be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means--that _she_,
-his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
-filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her--was a wretched
-reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
-looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes
-he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
-pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, “Go to your father, he
-wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.
-
-Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
-“Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be
-accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”
-
-How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more
-reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from
-explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
-but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,
-of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
-
-“Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be
-sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.
-But will they make you happy?”
-
-“Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief of my
-indifference?”
-
-“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but
-this would be nothing if you really liked him.”
-
-“I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes, “I love him.
-Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not
-know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in
-such terms.”
-
-“Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the kind
-of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he
-condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on
-having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know
-your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor
-respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked
-up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
-greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape
-discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing
-_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are
-about.”
-
-Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and
-at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object
-of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of
-him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection
-was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months'
-suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did
-conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
-
-“Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no more to
-say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with
-you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”
-
-To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy
-had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.
-
-“This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;
-made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him
-his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble
-and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have
-paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own
-way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about
-his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.”
-
-He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading
-Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her
-at last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, “If any young men come
-for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.”
-
-Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after
-half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join
-the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for
-gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer
-anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity
-would come in time.
-
-When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,
-and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;
-for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to
-utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could
-comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit
-what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a
-lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in
-her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
-
-“Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would
-have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich
-and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
-you will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so
-pleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my
-dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I
-hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing
-that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,
-Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted.”
-
-This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and
-Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,
-soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,
-her mother followed her.
-
-“My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else! Ten
-thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a
-special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But
-my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,
-that I may have it to-morrow.”
-
-This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman
-himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain
-possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'
-consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow
-passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood
-in such awe of her intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to
-him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her
-deference for his opinion.
-
-Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get
-acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising
-every hour in his esteem.
-
-“I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham, perhaps,
-is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well
-as Jane's.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 60
-
-
-Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.
-Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. “How could
-you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when
-you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first
-place?”
-
-“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which
-laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I
-knew that I _had_ begun.”
-
-“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour
-to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke
-to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;
-did you admire me for my impertinence?”
-
-“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
-
-“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.
-The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
-attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,
-and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and
-interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really
-amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you
-took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and
-in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
-courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for
-it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
-reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks
-of _that_ when they fall in love.”
-
-“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was
-ill at Netherfield?”
-
-“Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
-by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are
-to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me
-to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may
-be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling
-to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
-called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
-you look as if you did not care about me?”
-
-“Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.”
-
-“But I was embarrassed.”
-
-“And so was I.”
-
-“You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”
-
-“A man who had felt less, might.”
-
-“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that
-I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you
-_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when
-you _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of
-thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect.
-_Too much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort
-springs from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the
-subject. This will never do.”
-
-“You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady
-Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of
-removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to
-your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour
-to wait for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me
-hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.”
-
-“Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,
-for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to
-Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?
-or had you intended any more serious consequence?”
-
-“My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I
-might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to
-myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,
-and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.”
-
-“Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to
-befall her?”
-
-“I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it
-ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be
-done directly.”
-
-“And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and
-admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But
-I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.”
-
-From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy
-had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's
-long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would
-be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and
-aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as
-follows:
-
-“I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done,
-for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the
-truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.
-But _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your
-fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the
-subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you
-cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a
-great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again,
-for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your
-idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I
-am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so
-before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she
-only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that
-he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.
-Yours, etc.”
-
-Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and still
-different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply
-to his last.
-
-“DEAR SIR,
-
-“I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon
-be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can.
-But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.
-
-“Yours sincerely, etc.”
-
-Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
-marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even
-to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her
-former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was
-affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing
-her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.
-
-The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information,
-was as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were
-insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of
-being loved by her sister.
-
-Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations
-to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the
-Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this
-sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered
-so exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that
-Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till
-the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend
-was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their
-meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she
-saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of
-her husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even
-listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away
-the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all
-meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did
-shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.
-
-Mrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his
-forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in
-too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good
-humour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.
-Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all
-likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield
-him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep
-him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
-without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising
-from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it
-added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to
-the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing
-to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at
-Pemberley.
-
-
-
-Chapter 61
-
-
-Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got
-rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride
-she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may
-be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the
-accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many
-of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible,
-amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it
-was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity
-in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
-invariably silly.
-
-Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her
-drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in
-going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.
-
-Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near
-a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to
-_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his
-sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county
-to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source
-of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.
-
-Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with
-her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally
-known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a
-temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example,
-she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less
-ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's
-society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham
-frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of
-balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.
-
-Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily
-drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
-unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but
-she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no
-longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,
-it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without
-much reluctance.
-
-As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from
-the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
-Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude
-and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every
-thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on
-to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received
-from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,
-if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
-effect:
-
-“MY DEAR LIZZY,
-
-“I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear
-Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so
-rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us.
-I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not
-think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help.
-Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however,
-do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
-
-“Yours, etc.”
-
-As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in
-her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.
-Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice
-of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she
-frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
-income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in
-their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to
-their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
-herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance
-towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the
-restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the
-extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap
-situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for
-her soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and
-in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to
-reputation which her marriage had given her.
-
-Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
-Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was
-occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
-in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently
-staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
-proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.
-
-Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she
-thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she
-dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as
-attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility
-to Elizabeth.
-
-Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters
-was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each
-other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
-in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with
-an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of
-talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect
-which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open
-pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen
-in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that
-a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
-always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.
-
-Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;
-and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in
-her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him
-language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time
-all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,
-he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;
-and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her
-resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity
-to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait
-on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
-received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the
-visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
-
-With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
-Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
-sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing
-her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: A Tale of Two Cities
- A Story of the French Revolution
-
-Author: Charles Dickens
-
-Release Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]
-Posting Date: November 28, 2009
-Last Updated: March 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Judith Boss
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-A TALE OF TWO CITIES
-
-A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
-
-By Charles Dickens
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
- Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
- Chapter I The Period
- Chapter II The Mail
- Chapter III The Night Shadows
- Chapter IV The Preparation
- Chapter V The Wine-shop
- Chapter VI The Shoemaker
-
-
- Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
- Chapter I Five Years Later
- Chapter II A Sight
- Chapter III A Disappointment
- Chapter IV Congratulatory
- Chapter V The Jackal
- Chapter VI Hundreds of People
- Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town
- Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country
- Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head
- Chapter X Two Promises
- Chapter XI A Companion Picture
- Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy
- Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy
- Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman
- Chapter XV Knitting
- Chapter XVI Still Knitting
- Chapter XVII One Night
- Chapter XVIII Nine Days
- Chapter XIX An Opinion
- Chapter XX A Plea
- Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps
- Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises
- Chapter XXIII Fire Rises
- Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
- Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
- Chapter I In Secret
- Chapter II The Grindstone
- Chapter III The Shadow
- Chapter IV Calm in Storm
- Chapter V The Wood-sawyer
- Chapter VI Triumph
- Chapter VII A Knock at the Door
- Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards
- Chapter IX The Game Made
- Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow
- Chapter XI Dusk
- Chapter XII Darkness
- Chapter XIII Fifty-two
- Chapter XIV The Knitting Done
- Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
-
-
-
-I. The Period
-
-
-It was the best of times,
-it was the worst of times,
-it was the age of wisdom,
-it was the age of foolishness,
-it was the epoch of belief,
-it was the epoch of incredulity,
-it was the season of Light,
-it was the season of Darkness,
-it was the spring of hope,
-it was the winter of despair,
-we had everything before us,
-we had nothing before us,
-we were all going direct to Heaven,
-we were all going direct the other way--
-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
-its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
-evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-
-There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
-throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
-a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
-than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
-that things in general were settled for ever.
-
-It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
-as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
-blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
-heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
-made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
-ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
-messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
-deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
-earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
-from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
-to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
-communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
-brood.
-
-France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
-sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
-hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
-Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
-achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
-torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
-kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
-which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
-yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
-Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
-already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
-boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
-it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
-of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
-sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
-rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
-the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
-the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
-unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
-with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
-that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
-
-In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
-justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
-highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
-families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
-their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
-in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
-challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
-“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
-mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
-then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
-failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
-that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
-and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
-illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
-gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
-fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
-thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
-Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
-for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
-musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
-much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
-and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
-up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
-Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
-hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
-Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
-and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
-sixpence.
-
-All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
-upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
-those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
-fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
-with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
-and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
-creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
-roads that lay before them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Mail
-
-
-It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
-before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
-The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
-Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
-as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
-for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
-and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
-horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
-coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
-to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
-combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
-otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
-are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
-their duty.
-
-With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
-the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
-falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
-them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
-near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
-unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
-hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
-nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
-
-There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
-forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
-none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
-air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
-waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
-everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
-and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
-into it, as if they had made it all.
-
-Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
-side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
-ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
-anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
-hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
-the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
-were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
-the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
-when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
-“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
-non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
-of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
-thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
-he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
-and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
-loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
-deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
-
-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
-the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
-all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
-the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
-taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
-journey.
-
-“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
-top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
-it!--Joe!”
-
-“Halloa!” the guard replied.
-
-“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”
-
-“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
-
-“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
-yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
-
-The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
-made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
-suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
-passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
-stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
-had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
-into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
-getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
-
-The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
-stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
-the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
-
-“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
-box.
-
-“What do you say, Tom?”
-
-They both listened.
-
-“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”
-
-“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
-of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
-name, all of you!”
-
-With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
-the offensive.
-
-The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
-the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
-remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
-in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
-and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
-back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
-his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
-
-The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
-of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
-indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
-the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
-passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
-quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
-the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
-
-The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
-
-“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
-I shall fire!”
-
-The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
-a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”
-
-“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Why do you want to know?”
-
-“I want a passenger, if it is.”
-
-“What passenger?”
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”
-
-Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
-the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
-
-“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
-“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
-your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”
-
-“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
-speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”
-
-(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
-himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)
-
-“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“What is the matter?”
-
-“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”
-
-“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
-road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
-passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
-pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
-
-“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
-guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”
-
-“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
-
-“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
-saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
-at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
-now let's look at you.”
-
-The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
-and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
-stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
-a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
-rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
-the man.
-
-“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
-
-The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
-blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
-answered curtly, “Sir.”
-
-“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
-know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
-to drink. I may read this?”
-
-“If so be as you're quick, sir.”
-
-He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
-read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
-It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
-TO LIFE.”
-
-Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
- said he, at his hoarsest.
-
-“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
-well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”
-
-With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
-all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
-their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
-pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
-the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
-
-The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
-it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
-in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
-having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
-looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
-few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
-furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
-and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
-himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
-and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
-five minutes.
-
-“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.
-
-“Hallo, Joe.”
-
-“Did you hear the message?”
-
-“I did, Joe.”
-
-“What did you make of it, Tom?”
-
-“Nothing at all, Joe.”
-
-“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
-myself.”
-
-Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
-only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
-shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
-holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
-heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
-hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
-hill.
-
-“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
-fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
-glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
-message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
-be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
-Jerry!”
-
-
-
-
-III. The Night Shadows
-
-
-A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
-constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
-solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
-one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
-room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
-heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
-its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
-awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
-turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
-to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
-water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
-of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
-book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
-but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
-eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
-in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
-my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
-consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
-individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
-any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
-a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
-innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
-
-As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
-messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
-first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
-three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
-coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
-been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
-breadth of a county between him and the next.
-
-The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
-ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
-own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
-assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
-no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
-were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
-far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
-a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
-throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
-for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
-poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
-muffled again.
-
-“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
-“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
-suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
-been a drinking!”
-
-His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
-times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
-which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
-over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
-so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
-wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
-have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
-
-While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
-watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
-was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
-night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
-shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
-They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
-
-What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
-its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
-likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
-their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
-
-Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
-passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
-lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
-and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
-jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
-coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
-bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
-stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
-and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
-all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
-the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
-stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
-little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
-them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
-safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
-
-But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
-(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
-always with him, there was another current of impression that never
-ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
-out of a grave.
-
-Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
-was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
-not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
-years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
-and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
-defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
-so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
-and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
-prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
-spectre:
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-“You know that you are recalled to life?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”
-
-The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
-the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
- Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
-“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
-was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”
-
-After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
-and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
-hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
-hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
-passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
-reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
-
-Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
-patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
-by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
-of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
-real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
-sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
-of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
-it again.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
-passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
-securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
-slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
-slid away into the bank and the grave.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
-his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
-passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
-shadows of the night were gone.
-
-He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
-ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
-last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
-in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
-upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
-and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
-
-“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
-Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
-
-
-
-
-IV. The Preparation
-
-
-When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
-the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
-custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
-from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
-traveller upon.
-
-By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
-congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
-roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
-and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
-like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
-of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
-muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
-
-“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
-
-“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
-tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
-sir?”
-
-“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”
-
-“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
-Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
-gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
-Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”
-
-The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
-mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
-head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
-Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
-all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
-drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
-loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
-and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
-brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
-square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
-his breakfast.
-
-The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
-in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
-with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
-that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
-
-Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
-loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
-as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
-evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
-of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
-fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
-wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
-head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
-looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
-His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
-was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
-beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
-face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
-quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
-their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
-reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
-cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
-But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
-principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
-second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
-
-Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
-Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
-and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
-
-“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
-time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
-gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
-their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
-vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”
-
-“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
-sir?”
-
-“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
-from France.”
-
-“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
-time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
-Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
-years ago?”
-
-“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
-the truth.”
-
-“Indeed, sir!”
-
-Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
-table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
-dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
-he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
-immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
-
-When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
-the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
-from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
-ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
-wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
-destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
-brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
-a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
-dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
-fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
-night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
-made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
-sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
-that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
-
-As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
-at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
-again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
-too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
-his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
-digging, digging, in the live red coals.
-
-A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
-harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
-Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
-glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
-ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
-got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
-street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
-
-He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.
-
-In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
-had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
-Tellson's.
-
-“So soon?”
-
-Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
-then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
-immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
-
-The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
-glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
-wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
-It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
-horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
-oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
-were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
-graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
-from them until they were dug out.
-
-The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
-way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
-the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
-candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
-the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
-and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
-his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
-hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
-a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
-it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
-not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
-fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
-eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
-of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
-Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
-high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
-the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
-procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
-offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
-feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
-
-“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
-little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
-
-“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
-date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
-
-“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
-some intelligence--or discovery--”
-
-“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
-
-“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
-long dead--”
-
-Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
-hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
-anybody in their absurd baskets!
-
-“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
-with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
-the purpose.”
-
-“Myself.”
-
-“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”
-
-She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
-pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
-was than she. He made her another bow.
-
-“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
-those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
-France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
-me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
-during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
-gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
-beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
-
-“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
-be more happy to execute it.”
-
-“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
-by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
-business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
-nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
-strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
-
-“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”
-
-After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
-ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”
-
-He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
-forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
-and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
-as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
-shadow.
-
-“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
-
-“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
-an argumentative smile.
-
-Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
-which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
-deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
-she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
-moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
-
-“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
-as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”
-
-“If you please, sir.”
-
-“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
-acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
-if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
-your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
-
-“Story!”
-
-He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
-in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
-our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
-gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”
-
-“Not of Beauvais?”
-
-“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
-Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
-time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”
-
-“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”
-
-“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
-I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
-French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
-In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
-scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
-there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
-sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
-business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
-the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
-machine. To go on--”
-
-“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
-curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
-left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
-it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
-to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
-conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
-the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
-his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
-down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
-
-“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
-just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
-with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
-that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
-Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
-Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
-of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
-Mangle.”
-
-After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
-flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
-unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
-before), and resumed his former attitude.
-
-“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
-regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
-when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”
-
-She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
-
-“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
-the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
-him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
-business. As I was saying--”
-
-Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
-
-“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
-and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
-been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
-trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
-privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
-to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
-privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
-to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
-implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
-him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
-been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”
-
-“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
-
-“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”
-
-“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
-moment.”
-
-“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
-his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
-Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
-if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
-had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
-born--”
-
-“The little child was a daughter, sir.”
-
-“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
-poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
-that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
-inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
-rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
-Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
-
-“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
-
-“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
-business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
-mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
-shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
-much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
-
-Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
-very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
-his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
-communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
-
-“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
-you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
-you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
-her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
-to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
-upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
-heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
-
-As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
-flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
-been already tinged with grey.
-
-“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
-they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
-discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
-
-He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
-forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
-now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
-
-“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
-probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
-Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
-in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
-restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
-
-A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
-low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
-
-“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”
-
-Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
-there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
-You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
-sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
-
-She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
-have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
-
-“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
-wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
-another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
-worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
-know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
-held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
-because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
-anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
-events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
-Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
-the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
-to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
-and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
-which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
-word! Miss Manette!”
-
-Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
-sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
-upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
-branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
-feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
-out loudly for assistance without moving.
-
-A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
-be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
-extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
-wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
-or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
-inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
-poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
-flying back against the nearest wall.
-
-(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
-reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
-
-“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
-“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
-at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
-things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
-water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”
-
-There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
-softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
-gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
-golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
-
-“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
-“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
-to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
-you call _that_ being a Banker?”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
-answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
-sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
-servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
-not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
-regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
-upon her shoulder.
-
-“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
-
-“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
-humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”
-
-“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
-intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
-would have cast my lot in an island?”
-
-This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
-consider it.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wine-shop
-
-
-A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
-accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
-out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
-outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
-
-All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
-idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
-stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
-thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
-had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
-jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
-made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
-women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
-run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
-the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
-handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
-mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
-others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
-there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
-directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
-pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
-fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
-wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
-along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
-if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
-presence.
-
-A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
-and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
-was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
-special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
-of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
-luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
-shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
-together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
-most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
-demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
-had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
-motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
-hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
-starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
-with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
-the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
-gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
-
-The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
-in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
-stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
-wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
-on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
-stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
-Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
-tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
-head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
-upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
-
-The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
-street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
-
-And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
-gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
-heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
-waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
-but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
-terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
-fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
-passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
-in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
-had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
-children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
-grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
-was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
-of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
-lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
-paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
-firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
-chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
-among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
-baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
-bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
-was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
-chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
-farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
-drops of oil.
-
-Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
-street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
-diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
-and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
-that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
-wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
-slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
-compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
-into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
-inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
-were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
-painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
-meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
-croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
-gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
-flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
-and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
-gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
-with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
-broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
-the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
-rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
-the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
-pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
-and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
-manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
-the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
-
-For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
-should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
-long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
-up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
-condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
-France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
-song and feather, took no warning.
-
-The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
-appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
-it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
-for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
-of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
-another.”
-
-There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
-he called to him across the way:
-
-“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
-
-The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
-the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
-often the way with his tribe too.
-
-“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
-keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
-mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
-in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
-to write such words in?”
-
-In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
-perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
-own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
-attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
-hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
-practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
-
-“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
-there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
-dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
-his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
-
-This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
-and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
-bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
-His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
-the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
-crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
-eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
-the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
-resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
-down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
-the man.
-
-Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
-came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
-a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
-heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
-manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
-have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
-in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
-sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
-shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
-earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
-her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
-by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
-coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
-of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
-line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
-shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
-he stepped over the way.
-
-The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
-rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
-a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
-dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
-of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
-elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”
-
-“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
-to himself; “I don't know you.”
-
-But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
-with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
-all the spilt wine swallowed?”
-
-“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
-
-When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
-picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
-and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
-Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
-of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
-
-“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
-
-At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
-using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
-cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
-drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
-
-“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
-always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
-right, Jacques?”
-
-“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
-when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
-slightly rustled in her seat.
-
-“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”
-
-The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
-flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
-giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
-wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
-of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
-upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
-wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
-fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
-close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
-my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
-there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
-
-They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
-Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
-gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
-
-“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
-the door.
-
-Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
-word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
-not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
-beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
-knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
-
-Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
-joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
-company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
-and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
-by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
-gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
-to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
-a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
-transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
-in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
-angry, dangerous man.
-
-“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
- Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
-ascending the stairs.
-
-“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
-
-“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
-same low voice.
-
-“Is he always alone, then?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Of his own desire?”
-
-“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
-found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
-discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
-
-“He is greatly changed?”
-
-“Changed!”
-
-The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
-and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
-forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
-two companions ascended higher and higher.
-
-Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
-parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
-indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
-within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
-the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
-staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
-flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
-hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
-the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
-intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
-insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
-and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
-his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
-Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
-at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
-uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
-to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
-caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
-or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
-promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
-
-At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
-third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
-and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
-was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
-advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
-dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
-here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
-his shoulder, took out a key.
-
-“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
-
-“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
-
-“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
-closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
-frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
-harm--if his door was left open.”
-
-“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
-world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
-are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
-that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
-
-This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
-of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
-under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
-and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
-on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
-
-“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
-moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
-all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
-bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
-That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
-
-They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
-soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
-once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
-the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
-the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
-footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
-themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
-wine-shop.
-
-“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
-Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
-
-The three glided by, and went silently down.
-
-There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
-the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
-Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
-
-“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
-
-“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
-
-“Is that well?”
-
-“_I_ think it is well.”
-
-“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
-
-“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
-sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
-thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
-
-With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
-through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
-twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
-make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
-three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
-it as heavily as he could.
-
-The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
-room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
-than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
-
-He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
-got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
-felt that she was sinking.
-
-“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
-business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
-
-“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
-
-“Of it? What?”
-
-“I mean of him. Of my father.”
-
-Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
-their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
-shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
-down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
-
-Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
-took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
-methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
-could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
-where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
-
-The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
-and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
-roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
-the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
-other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
-door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
-Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
-was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
-alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
-requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
-done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
-towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
-him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
-busy, making shoes.
-
-
-
-
-VI. The Shoemaker
-
-
-“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
-bent low over the shoemaking.
-
-It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
-salutation, as if it were at a distance:
-
-“Good day!”
-
-“You are still hard at work, I see?”
-
-After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
-voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
-had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
-
-The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
-faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
-doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
-the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
-of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
-resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
-beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
-suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
-it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
-wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
-home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
-
-Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
-up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
-perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
-aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
-
-“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
-“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”
-
-The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
-at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
-other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“You can bear a little more light?”
-
-“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
-stress upon the second word.)
-
-The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
-angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
-showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
-labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
-feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
-long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
-thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
-dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
-otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
-His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
-to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
-stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
-from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
-parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
-
-He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
-of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
-pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
-first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
-lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
-first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
-
-“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
-motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
-
-“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”
-
-But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
-
-Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
-he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
-looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
-unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
-it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
-the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
-look and the action had occupied but an instant.
-
-“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Here is a visitor.”
-
-The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
-work.
-
-“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
-he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
-
-“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
-
-There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
-
-“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”
-
-“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
-information?”
-
-“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
-present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
-glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
-
-“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.
-
-Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
-in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
-hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
-so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
-recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
-had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
-endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
-fast-dying man.
-
-“Did you ask me for my name?”
-
-“Assuredly I did.”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
-again, until the silence was again broken.
-
-“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
-at him.
-
-His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
-question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
-on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
-
-“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
-learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”
-
-He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
-hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
-from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
-resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
-subject of last night.
-
-“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
-a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”
-
-As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
-Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
-
-“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
-
-The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
-questioner.
-
-“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
-remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
-banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
-mind, Monsieur Manette?”
-
-As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
-Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
-intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
-through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
-again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
-so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
-had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
-she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
-raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
-shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
-trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
-breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
-repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
-looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
-
-Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
-less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
-and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
-took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
-
-“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.
-
-“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
-unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
-well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”
-
-She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
-which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
-figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
-over his labour.
-
-Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
-beside him, and he bent over his work.
-
-It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
-in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
-which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
-stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
-raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
-but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
-striking at her with the knife, though they had.
-
-He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
-to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
-the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
-
-“What is this?”
-
-With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
-lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
-laid his ruined head there.
-
-“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”
-
-She sighed “No.”
-
-“Who are you?”
-
-Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
-beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
-thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
-laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
-
-Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
-aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
-little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
-he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
-shoemaking.
-
-But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
-shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
-be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
-to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
-attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
-a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
-hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
-
-He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
-the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”
-
-As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
-become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
-light, and looked at her.
-
-“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
-out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
-brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
-leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
-may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
-well.”
-
-He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
-But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
-though slowly.
-
-“How was this?--_Was it you_?”
-
-Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
-frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
-said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
-us, do not speak, do not move!”
-
-“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”
-
-His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
-hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
-shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
-tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
-gloomily shook his head.
-
-“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
-prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
-she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
-was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
-name, my gentle angel?”
-
-Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
-before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
-
-“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
-and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
-cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
-tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
-me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”
-
-His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
-lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
-
-“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
-is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
-sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
-touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
-breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
-I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
-with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
-remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
-weep for it, weep for it!”
-
-She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
-child.
-
-“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
-have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
-peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
-and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
-if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
-and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
-honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
-striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
-my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
-for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
-tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
-God for us, thank God!”
-
-He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
-touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
-had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
-
-When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
-breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
-storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
-called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
-daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
-there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
-head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
-him from the light.
-
-“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
-he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
-arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
-could be taken away--”
-
-“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
-him.”
-
-“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
-than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
-Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”
-
-“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
-methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”
-
-“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
-composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
-now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
-interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
-as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
-you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
-
-Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
-in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
-and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
-for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
-dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
-to do it.
-
-Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
-hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
-deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
-through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
-had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
-meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
-lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
-garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
-assisted him to his feet.
-
-No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
-the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
-whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
-he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
-tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
-answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
-the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
-occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
-in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
-daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
-
-In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
-ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
-and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
-his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
-in both his own.
-
-They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
-Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
-of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
-round at the walls.
-
-“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
-she had repeated it.
-
-“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”
-
-That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
-prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
-evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
-him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
-tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
-no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
-dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
-
-No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
-many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
-silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
-that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
-saw nothing.
-
-The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
-him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
-miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
-Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
-went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
-brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
-against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
-
-Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
-postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
-over-swinging lamps.
-
-Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
-streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
-illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
-gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
-travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
-getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
-monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
-him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
-military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
-in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
-or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
-Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
-grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
-grove of stars.
-
-Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
-this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
-rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
-is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
-All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
-whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
-man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
-lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:
-
-“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”
-
-And the old answer:
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-
-The end of the first book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
-
-
-
-I. Five Years Later
-
-
-Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
-year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
-dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
-moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
-proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
-proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
-in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
-it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
-no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
-convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
-no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
-embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
-Tellson's, thank Heaven--!
-
-Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
-question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
-on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
-suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
-objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
-
-Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
-of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
-a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
-and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
-counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
-wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
-windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
-and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
-heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
-“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
-where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
-hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
-twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
-drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
-they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
-were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
-the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
-polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
-made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
-parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
-papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
-dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
-one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
-by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
-from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
-exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
-Abyssinia or Ashantee.
-
-But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
-with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
-Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
-Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
-was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
-purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
-of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
-Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
-three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
-Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
-might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
-reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
-particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
-after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
-its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
-low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
-disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
-ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
-
-Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
-oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
-man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
-old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
-Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
-be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
-and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
-
-Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
-odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
-sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
-upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
-of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
-in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
-tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
-this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
-occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
-easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
-appellation of Jerry.
-
-The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
-Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
-morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
-always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
-the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
-popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
-
-Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
-but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
-might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
-it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
-already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
-for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
-was spread.
-
-Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
-at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
-and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
-looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
-exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
-
-“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
-
-A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
-corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
-person referred to.
-
-“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
-agin, are you?”
-
-After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
-the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
-odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
-whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
-often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
-
-“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
-mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”
-
-“I was only saying my prayers.”
-
-“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
-yourself down and praying agin me?”
-
-“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”
-
-“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
-your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
-father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
-You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
-herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
-of the mouth of her only child.”
-
-Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
-to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
-board.
-
-“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
-unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
-Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”
-
-“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
-that.”
-
-“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
-much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
-afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
-you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
-child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
-wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
-have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
-countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
-B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
-on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
-another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
-devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
-boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
-then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
-tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
-in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
-laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
-it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
-I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
-been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
-it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
-say now!”
-
-Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
-You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
-and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
-from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
-himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
-In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
-and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
-kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
-woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
-his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
---Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
-again with an undutiful grin.
-
-Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
-breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
-animosity.
-
-“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”
-
-His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
-
-“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
-to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
-ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
-blest off my table. Keep still!”
-
-Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
-which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
-his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
-inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
-aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
-he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
-of the day.
-
-It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
-description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
-a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
-young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
-beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
-with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
-from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
-feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
-Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
-itself,--and was almost as in-looking.
-
-Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
-three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
-Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
-standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
-inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
-boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
-extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
-in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
-eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
-The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
-the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
-youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
-in Fleet-street.
-
-The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
-establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
-
-“Porter wanted!”
-
-“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”
-
-Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
-the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
-had been chewing, and cogitated.
-
-“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
-“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
-rust here!”
-
-
-
-
-II. A Sight
-
-
-“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
-clerks to Jerry the messenger.
-
-“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
-know the Bailey.”
-
-“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
-better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
-in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”
-
-“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
-door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”
-
-“Into the court, sir?”
-
-“Into the court.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
-interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”
-
-“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
-conference.
-
-“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
-Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
-attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
-to remain there until he wants you.”
-
-“Is that all, sir?”
-
-“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
-you are there.”
-
-As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
-Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
-blotting-paper stage, remarked:
-
-“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”
-
-“Treason!”
-
-“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”
-
-“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
-spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”
-
-“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
-him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
-
-“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
-care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
-care of itself. I give you that advice.”
-
-“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
-leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
-
-“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
-gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
-ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”
-
-Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
-deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
-too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
-and went his way.
-
-They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
-not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
-But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
-villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
-into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
-dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
-had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
-his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
-For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
-from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
-a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
-half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
-So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
-was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
-a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
-the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
-softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
-blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
-leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
-under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
-illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
-that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
-consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
-
-Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
-hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
-way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
-his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
-at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
-former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
-doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
-criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
-
-After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
-very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
-court.
-
-“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
-to.
-
-“Nothing yet.”
-
-“What's coming on?”
-
-“The Treason case.”
-
-“The quartering one, eh?”
-
-“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
-be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
-face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
-and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
-That's the sentence.”
-
-“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.
-
-“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
-that.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
-saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
-sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
-gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
-before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
-in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
-then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
-court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
-with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
-to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
-
-“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
-
-“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.
-
-“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
-
-“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.
-
-The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
-central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
-went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
-
-Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
-ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
-at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
-pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
-stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
-laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
-themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
-upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
-Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
-of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
-whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
-the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
-that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
-in an impure mist and rain.
-
-The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
-five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
-a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
-dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
-dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
-of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
-itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
-situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
-soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
-bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
-
-The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
-was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
-horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
-details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
-fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
-was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
-and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
-spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
-powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
-
-Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
-an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
-he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
-forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
-occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
-King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
-so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
-our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
-said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
-evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
-said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
-to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
-becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
-huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
-the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
-there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
-that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
-
-The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
-beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
-the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
-attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
-and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
-composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
-it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
-vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
-
-Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
-upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
-it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
-in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
-glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
-day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
-for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
-that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
-of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
-face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
-
-It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
-which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
-in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
-immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
-aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
-
-The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
-twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
-remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
-and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
-but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
-looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
-it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
-handsome man, not past the prime of life.
-
-His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
-him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
-dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
-been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
-that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
-noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
-had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
-“Who are they?”
-
-Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
-manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
-absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
-him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
-from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
-to Jerry:
-
-“Witnesses.”
-
-“For which side?”
-
-“Against.”
-
-“Against what side?”
-
-“The prisoner's.”
-
-The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
-leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
-in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
-axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
-
-
-
-
-III. A Disappointment
-
-
-Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
-them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
-claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
-public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
-even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
-prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
-repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
-he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
-traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
-wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
-That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
-was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
-prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
-Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
-That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
-attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
-friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
-infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
-in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
-were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
-benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
-they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
-as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
-knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
-whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
-they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
-especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
-That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
-for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
-communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
-a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
-and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
-hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
-in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
-brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
-Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
-on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
-witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
-produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
-his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
-sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
-such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
-proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
-same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
-showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
-would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
-in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
-very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
-That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
-were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
-positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
-they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
-pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
-their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
-of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
-there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
-pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
-Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
-everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
-of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
-good as dead and gone.
-
-When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
-a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
-anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
-unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
-
-Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
-patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
-exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
-it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
-of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
-wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
-Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
-opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
-
-Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
-What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
-precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
-Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
-distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
-prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
-prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
-times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
-been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
-Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
-downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
-dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
-committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
-Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
-more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
-Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
-very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
-No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
-about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
-Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
-pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
-no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
-patriotism? None whatever.
-
-The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
-great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
-simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
-packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
-He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
-charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
-the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
-his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
-prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
-the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
-had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
-at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
-Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
-information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
-he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
-only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
-that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
-coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
-curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
-was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
-
-The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry.
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
-seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
-Dover by the mail?”
-
-“It did.”
-
-“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
-
-“Two.”
-
-“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
-
-“They did.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”
-
-“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
-
-“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
-
-“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
-reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
-those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
-render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”
-
-“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
-myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
-air.”
-
-“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“I certainly have seen that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
-certain knowledge, before?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
-prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
-voyage with me.”
-
-“At what hour did he come on board?”
-
-“At a little after midnight.”
-
-“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
-at that untimely hour?”
-
-“He happened to be the only one.”
-
-“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
-came on board in the dead of the night?”
-
-“He was.”
-
-“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
-
-“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
-
-“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
-
-“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
-I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
-
-“Miss Manette!”
-
-The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
-turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
-kept her hand drawn through his arm.
-
-“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
-
-To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
-far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
-Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
-the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
-to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
-before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
-to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
-rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
-
-“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Where?”
-
-“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
-occasion.”
-
-“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
-
-“O! most unhappily, I am!”
-
-The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
-of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
-to you, and make no remark upon them.”
-
-“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
-passage across the Channel?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Recall it.”
-
-In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
-gentleman came on board--”
-
-“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
-
-“Yes, my Lord.”
-
-“Then say the prisoner.”
-
-“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
-her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
-and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
-afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
-deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
-care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
-The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
-shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
-had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
-set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
-great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
-felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
-
-“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“How many were with him?”
-
-“Two French gentlemen.”
-
-“Had they conferred together?”
-
-“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
-necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”
-
-“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”
-
-“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
-papers.”
-
-“Like these in shape and size?”
-
-“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
-near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
-light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
-spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
-they looked at papers.”
-
-“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”
-
-“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
-of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
-father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
-harm to-day.”
-
-Buzzing from the blue-flies.
-
-“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
-you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
-give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
-he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”
-
-“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
-difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
-therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
-had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
-take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
-time to come.”
-
-“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”
-
-“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
-that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
-England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
-Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
-Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
-laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
-
-Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
-a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
-unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
-anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
-she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
-the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
-expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
-of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
-when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
-heresy about George Washington.
-
-Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
-necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
-father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
-
-“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
-
-“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
-three years and a half ago.”
-
-“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
-speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
-
-“Sir, I can do neither.”
-
-“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
-either?”
-
-He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
-
-“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
-trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”
-
-He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”
-
-“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
-
-“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
-time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
-time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
-here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
-my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
-familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
-
-Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
-together.
-
-A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
-to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
-in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
-got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
-not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
-to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
-was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
-in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
-waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
-this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
-on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
-been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
-little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
-this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
-attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
-
-“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
-
-The witness was quite sure.
-
-“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
-
-Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
-
-“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
-to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
-prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”
-
-Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
-if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
-not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
-into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
-his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
-much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
-counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
-friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
-would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
-happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
-this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
-confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
-this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
-useless lumber.
-
-Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
-fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
-Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
-of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
-traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
-scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
-rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
-and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
-swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
-affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
-those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
-consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
-even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
-and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
-had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
-gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
-and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
-reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
-impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
-How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
-attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
-and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
-how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
-character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
-State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
-(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
-not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
-
-Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
-attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
-Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
-Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
-prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
-the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
-decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
-
-And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
-
-Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
-changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
-While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
-whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
-anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
-grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
-and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
-in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
-sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
-on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
-hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
-day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
-a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
-undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
-when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
-lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
-hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
-observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
-that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
-to get any, do he?”
-
-Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
-appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
-her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
-“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
-Don't you see she will fall!”
-
-There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
-sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
-him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
-strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
-brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
-ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
-moment, spoke, through their foreman.
-
-They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
-Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
-but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
-and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
-the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
-jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
-refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
-down.
-
-Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
-now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
-could easily get near him.
-
-“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
-way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
-behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
-are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
-before I can.”
-
-Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
-acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
-at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
-
-“How is the young lady?”
-
-“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
-feels the better for being out of court.”
-
-“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
-like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
-in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
-The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
-eyes, ears, and spikes.
-
-“Mr. Darnay!”
-
-The prisoner came forward directly.
-
-“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
-will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”
-
-“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
-for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
-
-“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
-
-Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
-half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
-
-“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
-
-“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
-Mr. Darnay?”
-
-“The worst.”
-
-“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
-withdrawing is in your favour.”
-
-Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
-more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
-in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
-them.
-
-An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
-passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
-The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
-refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
-of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
-with them.
-
-“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
-there.
-
-“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
-
-Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
-it?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
-
-“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
-Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”
-
-He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
-until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
-with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
-swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
-search of other carrion.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Congratulatory
-
-
-From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
-human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
-Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
-for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
-Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
-death.
-
-It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
-in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
-shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
-twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
-had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
-to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
-reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
-lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
-from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
-itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
-unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
-Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
-hundred miles away.
-
-Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
-his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
-misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
-the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
-influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
-recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
-and slight, and she believed them over.
-
-Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
-to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
-more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
-loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
-way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
-conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
-
-He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
-late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
-out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
-Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
-less likely to succeed on that account.”
-
-“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
- said his late client, taking his hand.
-
-“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
-another man's, I believe.”
-
-It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
-said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
-object of squeezing himself back again.
-
-“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
-and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
-
-“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
-now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
-him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
-this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
-Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”
-
-“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
-do yet. Speak for yourself.”
-
-“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
-Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
- He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
-
-His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
-Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
-not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
-thoughts had wandered away.
-
-“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
-
-He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
-
-“Shall we go home, my father?”
-
-With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”
-
-The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
-impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
-released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
-passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
-and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
-gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
-Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
-the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
-departed in it.
-
-Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
-to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
-interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
-against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
-out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
-stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
-
-“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”
-
-Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
-proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
-better for it in appearance.
-
-“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
-business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
-appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
-sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
-have to think of the House more than ourselves.”
-
-“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
-nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
-I dare say.”
-
-“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
-know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
-much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
-business.”
-
-“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“It is a pity you have not, sir.”
-
-“I think so, too.”
-
-“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”
-
-“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
-“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
-if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
-Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
-for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
-I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
-life.--Chair there!”
-
-Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
-Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
-who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
-then, and turned to Darnay:
-
-“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
-be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
-these street stones?”
-
-“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
-again.”
-
-“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
-advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”
-
-“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”
-
-“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
-numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
-some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”
-
-Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
-Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
-shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
-his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
-opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
-before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
-
-“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
-Darnay?”
-
-“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
-mended as to feel that.”
-
-“It must be an immense satisfaction!”
-
-He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
-one.
-
-“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
-It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
-are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
-not much alike in any particular, you and I.”
-
-Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
-this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
-at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
-
-“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
-health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”
-
-“What health? What toast?”
-
-“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
-swear it's there.”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
-flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
-pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
- he said, filling his new goblet.
-
-A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
-feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
-sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”
-
-Again Darnay answered not a word.
-
-“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
-that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”
-
-The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
-disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
-strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
-for it.
-
-“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
-“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
-it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”
-
-“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”
-
-“Do you think I particularly like you?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
-not asked myself the question.”
-
-“But ask yourself the question now.”
-
-“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”
-
-“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
-opinion of your understanding.”
-
-“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
-nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
-parting without ill-blood on either side.”
-
-Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
-reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
-bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
-ten.”
-
-The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
-Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
-of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
-I am drunk?”
-
-“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
-
-“Since I must say so, I know it.”
-
-“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
-care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
-
-“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
-
-“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
-however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”
-
-When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
-glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
-
-“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
-should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
-in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
-made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
-what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
-places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
-he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
-have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
-
-He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
-minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
-table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Jackal
-
-
-Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
-the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
-statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
-in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
-perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
-The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
-learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
-Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
-practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
-drier parts of the legal race.
-
-A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
-begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
-he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
-specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
-visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
-florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
-the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
-among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
-
-It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
-man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
-faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
-among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
-But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
-business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
-pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
-Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
-
-Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
-ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
-might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
-anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
-at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
-they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
-rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
-to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
-among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
-would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
-rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
-wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“_What's_ the matter?”
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”
-
-“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
-
-“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
-
-After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
-dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
-he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
-and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
-Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
-
-The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
-home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
-and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
-had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
-may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
-Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
-Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
-
-“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.
-
-“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”
-
-They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
-where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
-the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
-it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
-
-“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”
-
-“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
-seeing him dine--it's all one!”
-
-“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
-identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”
-
-“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
-been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”
-
-Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
-
-“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”
-
-Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
-room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
-or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
-out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
-at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”
-
-“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
-gaily, as he looked among his papers.
-
-“How much?”
-
-“Only two sets of them.”
-
-“Give me the worst first.”
-
-“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
-
-The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
-drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
-proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
-his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
-a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
-his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
-lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
-so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
-stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
-more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
-matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
-him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
-jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
-no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
-gravity.
-
-At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
-proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
-made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
-assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
-hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
-invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
-to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
-this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
-disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
-
-“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
-Stryver.
-
-The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
-again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
-
-“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
-to-day. Every question told.”
-
-“I always am sound; am I not?”
-
-“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
-it and smooth it again.”
-
-With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
-
-“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
-his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
-old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
-now in despondency!”
-
-“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
-luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
-
-He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
-him, looking at the fire.
-
-“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
-as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
-was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
-Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
-is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
-at me.”
-
-“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
-good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”
-
-“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
-do?”
-
-“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
-your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
-do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”
-
-“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”
-
-“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
-Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
-
-“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
- pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
-mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
-picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
-didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
-nowhere.”
-
-“And whose fault was that?”
-
-“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
-driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
-that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
-thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
-Turn me in some other direction before I go.”
-
-“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
-his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”
-
-Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
-
-“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
-enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”
-
-“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”
-
-“_She_ pretty?”
-
-“Is she not?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”
-
-“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
-of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”
-
-“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
-and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
-thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
-and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”
-
-“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
-yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
-I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
-I'll get to bed.”
-
-When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
-him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
-windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
-dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
-lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
-before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
-the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
-
-Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
-on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
-wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
-perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
-from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
-fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
-A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
-houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
-pillow was wet with wasted tears.
-
-Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
-good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
-incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
-on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
-
-
-
-
-VI. Hundreds of People
-
-
-The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
-far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
-waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
-it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
-on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
-business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
-quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
-
-On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
-the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
-Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
-secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
-them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
-generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
-his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
-Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
-them.
-
-A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
-found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
-the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
-had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
-north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
-grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
-consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
-instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
-settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
-the peaches ripened in their season.
-
-The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
-of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
-though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
-glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
-place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
-
-There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
-there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
-several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
-audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
-a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
-rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
-to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
-who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
-he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
-visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
-to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
-a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
-workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
-about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
-thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
-required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
-the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
-from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
-
-Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
-its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
-His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
-ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
-he earned as much as he wanted.
-
-These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
-notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
-on the fine Sunday afternoon.
-
-“Doctor Manette at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Lucie at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Pross at home?”
-
-Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
-anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
-fact.
-
-“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”
-
-Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
-birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
-make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
-agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
-by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
-that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
-rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
-the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
-delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
-themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
-stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
-with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
-time, whether he approved?
-
-There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
-communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
-all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
-he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
-the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
-and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
-the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
-changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
-Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
-bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
-dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
-
-“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
-that reminder of his sufferings about him!”
-
-“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
-
-It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
-acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
-had since improved.
-
-“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.
-
-“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
-
-“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
-express that she bore him no malice.
-
-“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
-are you?”
-
-“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
-Ladybird.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
-fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
-stature) was shortness.
-
-“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
-
-“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
-very much put out.”
-
-“May I ask the cause?”
-
-“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
-come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”
-
-“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.
-
-It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
-time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
-she exaggerated it.
-
-“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
-
-“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
-paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
-your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
-for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
- said Miss Pross.
-
-Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
-using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
-fit anything.
-
-“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
-are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”
-
-“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”
-
-“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”
-
-“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
-enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
-that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
-him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
-circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
-and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
-him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”
-
-Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
-this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
-unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
-admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
-it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
-never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
-their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
-is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
-rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
-respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
-mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
-Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
-better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
-
-“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
-Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
-mistake in life.”
-
-Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
-established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
-who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
-speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
-no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
-(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
-matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
-
-“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
-business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
-sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
-in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”
-
-“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
-refer to it within himself.”
-
-“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”
-
-“I do,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
-short with:
-
-“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”
-
-“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
-sometimes?”
-
-“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
-bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
-theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
-the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
-oppressor?”
-
-“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”
-
-“And that is--?”
-
-“That she thinks he has.”
-
-“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
-mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”
-
-“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
-
-Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
-no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
-Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
-he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
-though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
-intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
-attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
-Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
-zealous interest.”
-
-“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
-me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
-of the whole subject.”
-
-“Afraid?”
-
-“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
-remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
-knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
-feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
-subject pleasant, I should think.”
-
-It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
-he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
-Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
-always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
-it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”
-
-“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
-string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
-In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
-the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
-up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
-know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
-his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
-and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
-a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
-best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
-together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
-brought him to himself.”
-
-Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
-perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
-in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
-her possessing such a thing.
-
-The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
-had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
-seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
-set it going.
-
-“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
-“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”
-
-It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
-peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
-looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
-they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
-the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
-heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
-at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
-was ready at the street door to receive them.
-
-Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
-off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
-with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
-folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
-as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
-had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
-sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
-her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
-playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
-chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
-them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
-eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
-have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
-beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
-stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
-Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
-for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
-
-Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
-the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
-always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
-quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
-contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
-better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
-kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
-impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
-impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
-of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
-who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
-or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
-a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
-pleased.
-
-On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
-persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
-regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
-which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
-Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
-to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
-
-It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
-wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
-there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
-they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
-the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
-time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
-plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
-and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
-whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
-
-Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
-presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
-was only One.
-
-Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
-suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
-retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
-disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
-jerks.”
-
-The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
-resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
-they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
-his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
-likeness.
-
-He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
-vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
-plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
-which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
-the Tower?”
-
-“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
-it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”
-
-“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
-though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
-character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
-curious thing when I was there.”
-
-“What was that?” Lucie asked.
-
-“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
-had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
-its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
-prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
-in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
-execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
-some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
-At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
-examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
-legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
-were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
-that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
-floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
-earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
-the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
-or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
-had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”
-
-“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”
-
-He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
-his look quite terrified them all.
-
-“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
-made me start. We had better go in.”
-
-He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
-drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
-said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
-of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
-either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
-towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
-when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
-
-He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
-his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
-steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
-was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
-that the rain had startled him.
-
-Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
-her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
-made only Two.
-
-The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
-windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
-done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
-heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
-leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
-the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
-ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
-
-“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
-Manette. “It comes slowly.”
-
-“It comes surely,” said Carton.
-
-They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
-dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
-
-There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
-get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
-resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
-footstep was there.
-
-“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
-listened for a while.
-
-“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
-sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
-a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
-solemn--”
-
-“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”
-
-“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
-originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
-sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
-the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
-by-and-bye into our lives.”
-
-“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
- Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
-
-The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
-rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
-as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
-coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
-the distant streets, and not one within sight.
-
-“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
-are we to divide them among us?”
-
-“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
-asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
-then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
-into my life, and my father's.”
-
-“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
-stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
-and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
-had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
-
-“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
-come, fast, fierce, and furious!”
-
-It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
-for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
-lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
-interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
-midnight.
-
-The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
-Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
-forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
-of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
-of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
-usually performed a good two hours earlier.
-
-“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
-bring the dead out of their graves.”
-
-“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
-would do that,” answered Jerry.
-
-“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
-Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”
-
-Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
-bearing down upon them, too.
-
-
-
-
-VII. Monseigneur in Town
-
-
-Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
-fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
-his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
-the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
-was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
-things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
-rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
-much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
-strong men besides the Cook.
-
-Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
-Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
-pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
-conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
-the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
-the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
-a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
-watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
-dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
-place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
-his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
-men; he must have died of two.
-
-Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
-and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
-a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
-impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
-more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
-state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
-for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
-favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
-days of the merry Stuart who sold it.
-
-Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
-was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
-business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
-his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
-particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
-was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
-by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
-thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”
-
-Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
-his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
-affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
-public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
-must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
-private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
-generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
-Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
-time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
-wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
-poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
-a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
-rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
-mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
-down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
-
-A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
-stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
-waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
-forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
-relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
-among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
-
-For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
-every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
-achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
-reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
-so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
-equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
-have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
-been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
-destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
-civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
-worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
-all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
-pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
-Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
-anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
-score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
-yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
-passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
-no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
-for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
-patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
-discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
-State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
-root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
-they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
-Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
-card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
-Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
-wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
-the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
-since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
-subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
-exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
-notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
-among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
-of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
-the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
-appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
-bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
-towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
-known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
-and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
-supped as at twenty.
-
-The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
-upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
-people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
-things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
-them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
-sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
-whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
-spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
-Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
-three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
-jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
-Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
-out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
-the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
-by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
-discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
-became manifest.
-
-But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
-Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
-ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
-correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
-delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
-swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
-surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
-of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
-languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
-and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
-fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
-his devouring hunger far away.
-
-Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
-things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
-was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
-Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
-of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
-descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
-required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
-and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
-rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
-Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
-him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
-Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
-of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
-hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
-see the very stars out!
-
-Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
-chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
-open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
-fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
-body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
-been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
-troubled it.
-
-Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
-happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
-passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
-Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
-course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
-sprites, and was seen no more.
-
-The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
-and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
-but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
-and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
-way out.
-
-“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
-and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”
-
-With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
-dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
-
-He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
-with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
-feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
-beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
-of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
-change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
-colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
-by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
-treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
-attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
-line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
-too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
-handsome face, and a remarkable one.
-
-Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
-drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
-stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
-in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
-to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
-often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
-charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
-check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
-sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
-that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
-custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
-barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
-time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
-left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
-
-With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
-consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
-dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
-before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
-its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
-wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
-number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
-
-But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
-stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
-behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
-and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
-
-“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
-
-A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
-the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
-down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
-
-“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
-a child.”
-
-“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”
-
-“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”
-
-The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
-into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
-got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
-Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
-
-“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
-their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”
-
-The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
-nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
-and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
-people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
-remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
-and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
-over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
-
-He took out his purse.
-
-“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
-of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
-the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
-him that.”
-
-He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
-craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
-tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”
-
-He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
-made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
-sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
-stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
-were as silent, however, as the men.
-
-“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
-Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
-live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
-as happily?”
-
-“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
-they call you?”
-
-“They call me Defarge.”
-
-“Of what trade?”
-
-“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”
-
-“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
-throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
-there; are they right?”
-
-Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
-Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
-air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
-paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
-disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
-
-“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”
-
-He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
-moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
-the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
-figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
-
-“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
-except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
-willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
-threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
-should be crushed under the wheels.”
-
-So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
-what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
-a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
-But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
-Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
-contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
-leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”
-
-He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
-succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
-Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
-whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
-had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
-on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
-spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
-which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
-bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
-while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
-of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
-had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
-of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
-into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
-time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
-in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
-things ran their course.
-
-
-
-
-VIII. Monseigneur in the Country
-
-
-A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
-Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
-and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
-inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
-tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
-disposition to give up, and wither away.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
-lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
-a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
-no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
-occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
-sun.
-
-The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
-gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
-die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”
-
-In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
-heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
-hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
-quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
-left when the drag was taken off.
-
-But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
-at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
-church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
-fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
-as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
-coming near home.
-
-The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
-tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
-fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
-its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
-shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
-fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
-the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
-were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
-for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
-paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
-the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.
-
-Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
-their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
-terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
-or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
-
-Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
-whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
-if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
-his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
-fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
-He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
-sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
-meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
-truth through the best part of a hundred years.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
-drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
-Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
-drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
-of the roads joined the group.
-
-“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.
-
-The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
-to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
-
-“I passed you on the road?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”
-
-“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true.”
-
-“What did you look at, so fixedly?”
-
-“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”
-
-He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
-carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
-
-“What man, pig? And why look there?”
-
-“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”
-
-“Who?” demanded the traveller.
-
-“Monseigneur, the man.”
-
-“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
-know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”
-
-“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
-all the days of my life, I never saw him.”
-
-“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”
-
-“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
-His head hanging over--like this!”
-
-He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
-face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
-himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
-
-“What was he like?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
-white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”
-
-The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
-eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
-the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
-conscience.
-
-“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
-vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
-and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
-Gabelle!”
-
-Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
-united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
-examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
-official manner.
-
-“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.
-
-“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
-to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”
-
-“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”
-
-“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”
-
-The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
-particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
-half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
-presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
-
-“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
-a person plunges into the river.”
-
-“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”
-
-The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
-wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
-to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
-they might not have been so fortunate.
-
-The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
-rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
-it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
-sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
-gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
-points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
-courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
-
-At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
-with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
-figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
-studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
-dreadfully spare and thin.
-
-To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
-growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
-turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
-presented herself at the carriage-door.
-
-“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”
-
-With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
-Monseigneur looked out.
-
-“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”
-
-“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”
-
-“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
-cannot pay something?”
-
-“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”
-
-“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”
-
-“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
-grass.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”
-
-“Again, well?”
-
-She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
-grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
-with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
-caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
-feel the appealing touch.
-
-“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
-want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”
-
-“Again, well? Can I feed them?”
-
-“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
-that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
-over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
-forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
-shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
-are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
-Monseigneur!”
-
-The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
-a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
-behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
-diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
-his chateau.
-
-The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
-the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
-at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
-of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
-man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
-could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
-in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
-stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
-been extinguished.
-
-The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
-was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
-for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
-of his chateau was opened to him.
-
-“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”
-
-“Monseigneur, not yet.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Gorgon's Head
-
-
-It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
-with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
-staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
-business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
-stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
-all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
-finished, two centuries ago.
-
-Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
-to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
-of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
-flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
-door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
-in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
-save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
-those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
-heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
-
-The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
-hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
-grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
-peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
-was angry.
-
-Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
-Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
-the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
-to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
-others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
-the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
-befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
-The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
-break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
-but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
-pages in the history of France.
-
-A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
-room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
-lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
-closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
-black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
-
-“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
-said he was not arrived.”
-
-Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
-
-“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
-table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
-
-In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
-sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
-he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
-lips, when he put it down.
-
-“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
-horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
-
-“Monseigneur? That?”
-
-“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”
-
-It was done.
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
-here.”
-
-The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
-the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
-for instructions.
-
-“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”
-
-That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
-half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
-hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
-front of the chateau.
-
-“Ask who is arrived.”
-
-It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
-Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
-rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
-He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
-
-He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
-there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
-He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
-
-Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
-hands.
-
-“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
-seat at table.
-
-“Yesterday. And you?”
-
-“I come direct.”
-
-“From London?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.
-
-“On the contrary; I come direct.”
-
-“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
-intending the journey.”
-
-“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
-answer--“various business.”
-
-“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.
-
-So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
-When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
-looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
-fine mask, opened a conversation.
-
-“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
-took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
-a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
-sustained me.”
-
-“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”
-
-“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
-the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”
-
-The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
-lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
-graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
-breeding that it was not reassuring.
-
-“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
-expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
-circumstances that surrounded me.”
-
-“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.
-
-“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
-deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
-and would know no scruple as to means.”
-
-“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
-two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”
-
-“I recall it.”
-
-“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
-
-His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
-instrument.
-
-“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
-bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
-France here.”
-
-“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
-“Dare I ask you to explain?”
-
-“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
-been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
-have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”
-
-“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
-of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
-Pray excuse me!”
-
-“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
-yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.
-
-“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
-politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
-consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
-your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
-yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
-at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
-aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
-might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
-and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
-(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
-things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
-of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
-dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
-one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
-some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
-lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
-assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
-to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
-bad!”
-
-The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
-as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
-containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
-
-“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
-time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
-more detested than any name in France.”
-
-“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
-involuntary homage of the low.”
-
-“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
-look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
-deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”
-
-“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
-merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
-Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
-crossed his legs.
-
-But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
-thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
-him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
-and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
-indifference.
-
-“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
-and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
-obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
-out the sky.”
-
-That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
-chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
-they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
-him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
-the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
-he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
-way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
-was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
-
-“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
-of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
-terminate our conference for the night?”
-
-“A moment more.”
-
-“An hour, if you please.”
-
-“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
-of wrong.”
-
-“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
-and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
-
-“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
-to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
-a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
-our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
-when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
-inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”
-
-“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.
-
-“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
-frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
-execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
-look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
-redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”
-
-“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
-breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
-will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”
-
-Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
-cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
-quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
-touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
-a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
-body, and said,
-
-“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
-lived.”
-
-When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
-box in his pocket.
-
-“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
-bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
-Monsieur Charles, I see.”
-
-“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
-renounce them.”
-
-“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
-is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”
-
-“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
-to me from you, to-morrow--”
-
-“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”
-
-“--or twenty years hence--”
-
-“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
-supposition.”
-
-“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
-relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
-
-“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
-under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
-mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
-and suffering.”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
-
-“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
-qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
-weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
-it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
-another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
-on it, and on all this land.”
-
-“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
-philosophy, graciously intend to live?”
-
-“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
-their backs, may have to do some day--work.”
-
-“In England, for example?”
-
-“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
-family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”
-
-The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
-lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
-Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
-valet.
-
-“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
-prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
-with a smile.
-
-“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
-be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”
-
-“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
-know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“With a daughter?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
-in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
-which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
-time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
-straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
-looked handsomely diabolic.
-
-“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
-commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
-outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
-looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
-
-“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
-again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
-chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
-added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
-valet to his own bedroom.
-
-The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
-loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
-night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
-noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
-enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
-periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
-coming on.
-
-He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
-scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
-toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
-prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
-the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
-chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
-the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
-tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”
-
-“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”
-
-So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
-gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
-with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
-
-The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
-for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
-rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
-very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
-the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
-hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
-
-For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
-stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
-dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
-The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
-were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
-have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
-taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
-the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
-the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
-freed.
-
-The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
-at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
-minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
-hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
-and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
-
-Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
-trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
-of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
-crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
-weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
-the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
-At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
-mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
-
-Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
-windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
-shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
-lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
-fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
-and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
-out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
-and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
-prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
-foot.
-
-The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
-surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
-reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
-now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
-round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
-doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
-pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
-
-All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
-return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
-chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
-figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
-everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
-
-What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
-at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
-much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
-peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
-to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
-no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
-down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
-fountain.
-
-All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
-in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
-emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
-in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
-on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
-trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
-the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
-all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
-on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
-highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
-into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
-himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
-and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
-a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
-(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
-the German ballad of Leonora?
-
-It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
-
-The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
-the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
-through about two hundred years.
-
-It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
-mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
-heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
-was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
-
-“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”
-
-
-
-
-X. Two Promises
-
-
-More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
-Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
-language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
-would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
-young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
-living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
-its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
-sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
-at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
-to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
-dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
-tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
-profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
-work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
-known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
-circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
-So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
-
-In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
-to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
-would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
-did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
-
-A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
-read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
-contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
-and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
-London.
-
-Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
-when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
-invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
-woman.
-
-He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
-heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
-he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
-confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
-him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
-at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
-long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
-mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
-much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
-
-That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
-summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
-he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
-of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
-day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
-
-He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
-which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
-their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
-very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
-of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
-sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
-exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
-frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
-
-He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
-ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
-sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
-
-“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
-return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
-both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”
-
-“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
-a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
-Manette--”
-
-“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
-delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
-soon be home.”
-
-“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
-being from home, to beg to speak to you.”
-
-There was a blank silence.
-
-“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
-and speak on.”
-
-He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
-easy.
-
-“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
- so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
-on which I am about to touch may not--”
-
-He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
-had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
-
-“Is Lucie the topic?”
-
-“She is.”
-
-“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
-to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”
-
-“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
-Manette!” he said deferentially.
-
-There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
-
-“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”
-
-His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
-originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
-Darnay hesitated.
-
-“Shall I go on, sir?”
-
-Another blank.
-
-“Yes, go on.”
-
-“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
-I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
-the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
-laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
-disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
-her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”
-
-The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
-ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
-and cried:
-
-“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”
-
-His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
-Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
-extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
-so received it, and remained silent.
-
-“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
-moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”
-
-He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
-raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
-overshadowed his face:
-
-“Have you spoken to Lucie?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Nor written?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
-to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
-you.”
-
-He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
-
-“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
-Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
-you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
-belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
-can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
-child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
-with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
-is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
-itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
-now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
-years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
-early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
-you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
-hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
-in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
-you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
-neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
-own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
-loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
-have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”
-
-Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
-little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
-
-“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
-with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
-long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
-now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
-your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
-Heaven is my witness that I love her!”
-
-“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
-before now. I believe it.”
-
-“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
-struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
-that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
-put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
-word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
-should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
-a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
-heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
-now touch this honoured hand.”
-
-He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
-
-“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
-you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
-you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
-in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
-life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
-with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
-come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”
-
-His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
-moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
-his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
-conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
-occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
-
-“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
-you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
-you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”
-
-“None. As yet, none.”
-
-“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
-ascertain that, with my knowledge?”
-
-“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
-might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”
-
-“Do you seek any guidance from me?”
-
-“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
-in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”
-
-“Do you seek any promise from me?”
-
-“I do seek that.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
-understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
-innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
-could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”
-
-“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”
-
-“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
-favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
-Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
-word, to save my life.”
-
-“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
-well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
-delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
-respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
-heart.”
-
-“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
-supplied the rest.
-
-“Is sought by any other suitor?”
-
-“It is what I meant to say.”
-
-Her father considered a little before he answered:
-
-“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
-occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”
-
-“Or both,” said Darnay.
-
-“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
-a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”
-
-“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
-part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
-bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
-may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
-me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
-condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
-require, I will observe immediately.”
-
-“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
-your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
-believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
-between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
-that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
-If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”
-
-The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
-the Doctor spoke:
-
-“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
-new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
-thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
-sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
-than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”
-
-So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
-his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
-hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
-
-“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
-“What was it you said to me?”
-
-He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
-condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
-
-“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
-part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
-not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
-why I am in England.”
-
-“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.
-
-“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
-secret from you.”
-
-“Stop!”
-
-For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
-another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
-
-“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
-should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
-promise?”
-
-“Willingly.
-
-“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
-should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”
-
-It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
-darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
-Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
-reading-chair empty.
-
-“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”
-
-Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
-bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
-his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
-blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”
-
-Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
-his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
-her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
-together for a long time.
-
-She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
-slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
-work, were all as usual.
-
-
-
-
-XI. A Companion Picture
-
-
-“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
-jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”
-
-Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
-and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
-a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
-of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
-arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
-November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
-bring grist to the mill again.
-
-Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
-application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
-through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
-the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
-his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
-intervals for the last six hours.
-
-“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
-his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
-his back.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
-surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
-shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”
-
-“_Do_ you?”
-
-“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”
-
-“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“Do I know her?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
-frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
-me to dinner.”
-
-“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
-posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
-because you are such an insensible dog.”
-
-“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
-sensitive and poetical spirit--”
-
-“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
-any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
-I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”
-
-“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”
-
-“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”
-
-“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.
-
-“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
-inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
-be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
-to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”
-
-“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
-way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
-as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
-moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
-hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
-Sydney!”
-
-“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
-be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
-to me.”
-
-“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
-rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
-to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
-fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”
-
-Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
-
-“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
-myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
-Why do I do it?”
-
-“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.
-
-“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
-get on.”
-
-“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
- answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
-to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”
-
-He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
-
-“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
-delivered in no very soothing tone.
-
-“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
-“Who is the lady?”
-
-“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
-Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
-for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
-half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
-make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
-me in slighting terms.”
-
-“I did?”
-
-“Certainly; and in these chambers.”
-
-Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
-drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
-
-“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
-lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
-delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
-little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
-You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
-think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
-a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
-of mine, who had no ear for music.”
-
-Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
-looking at his friend.
-
-“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
-fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
-please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
-will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
-and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
-but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
-astonished?”
-
-“You approve?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”
-
-“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
-you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
-be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
-ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
-enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
-feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
-inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
-that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
-credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
-say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
-know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
-you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
-you really ought to think about a nurse.”
-
-The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
-big as he was, and four times as offensive.
-
-“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
-I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
-you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
-you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
-understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
-respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
-or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
-kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”
-
-“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.
-
-
-
-
-XII. The Fellow of Delicacy
-
-
-Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
-fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
-to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
-debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
-well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
-at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
-before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
-and Hilary.
-
-As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
-saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
-grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
-plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
-plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
-the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
-consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
-case could be.
-
-Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
-proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
-Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
-himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
-
-Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
-while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
-Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
-on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
-along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
-seen how safe and strong he was.
-
-His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
-knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
-Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
-of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
-in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
-cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
-Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
-bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
-under the clouds were a sum.
-
-“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”
-
-It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
-place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
-in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
-squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
-the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
-the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
-
-The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
-recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
-you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
-of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
-hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
-self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
-
-“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
-business character.
-
-“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
-have come for a private word.”
-
-“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
-to the House afar off.
-
-“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
-desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
-be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
-in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
-visitor dubiously.
-
-“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
-What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
-appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
-my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
-Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
-manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
-“you know there really is so much too much of you!”
-
-“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
-opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
-Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”
-
-Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
-end, and bit the feather of a pen.
-
-“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”
-
-“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
-eligible, you are eligible.”
-
-“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.
-
-“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“And advancing?”
-
-“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
-able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”
-
-“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
-perceptibly crestfallen.
-
-“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
-
-“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”
-
-“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
-shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
-have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”
-
-“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
-having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”
-
-“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
-Stryver.
-
-“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
-a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
-complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
-head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
-been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
-
-“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
-when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
-causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
-lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
-young lady. The young lady goes before all.”
-
-“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
-elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
-present in question is a mincing Fool?”
-
-“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
-reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
-from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
-taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
-not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
-this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
-mind.”
-
-The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
-blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
-Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
-no better state now it was his turn.
-
-“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
-be no mistake about it.”
-
-Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
-hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
-toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
-
-“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
-to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
-bar?”
-
-“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”
-
-“Yes, I do.”
-
-“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”
-
-“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
-this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”
-
-“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
-not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
-business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
-Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
-of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
-spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
-may not be right?”
-
-“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
-parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
-in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
-new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”
-
-“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
-understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
-will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
-gentleman breathing.”
-
-“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.
-
-“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
-painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
-Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
-painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
-know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
-the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
-in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
-little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
-it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
-soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
-with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
-best spared. What do you say?”
-
-“How long would you keep me in town?”
-
-“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
-evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”
-
-“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
-hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
-in to-night. Good morning.”
-
-Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
-concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
-bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
-of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
-always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
-believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
-the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
-
-The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
-gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
-moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
-swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
-forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
-out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”
-
-It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
-great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
-Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”
-
-Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
-Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
-purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
-the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
-altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.
-
-“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
-bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
-Soho.”
-
-“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
-thinking of!”
-
-“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
-conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
-advice.”
-
-“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
-am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
-account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
-us say no more about it.”
-
-“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
-final way; “no matter, no matter.”
-
-“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.
-
-“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
-sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
-not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
-done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
-repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
-aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
-a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
-glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
-for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
-have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
-proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
-certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
-that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
-giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
-will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
-I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
-And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
-and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
-you were right, it never would have done.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
-Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
-showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
-“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
-thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”
-
-Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
-was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy
-
-
-If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
-house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
-and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
-cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
-which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
-pierced by the light within him.
-
-And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
-and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
-he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
-transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
-figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
-of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
-in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
-brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
-into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
-him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
-it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
-neighbourhood.
-
-On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
-that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
-delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
-City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
-for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
-those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
-animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
-they took him to the Doctor's door.
-
-He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
-never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
-embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
-his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
-a change in it.
-
-“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
-is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”
-
-“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
-live no better life?”
-
-“God knows it is a shame!”
-
-“Then why not change it?”
-
-Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
-there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
-answered:
-
-“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
-sink lower, and be worse.”
-
-He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
-table trembled in the silence that followed.
-
-She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
-be so, without looking at her, and said:
-
-“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
-what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”
-
-“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
-it would make me very glad!”
-
-“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”
-
-He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
-
-“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
-one who died young. All my life might have been.”
-
-“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
-sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”
-
-“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
-mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
-it!”
-
-She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
-of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
-been holden.
-
-“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
-love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
-poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
-conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
-bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
-disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
-no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
-be.”
-
-“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
-you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
-confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
-little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
-no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
-
-He shook his head.
-
-“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
-little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
-you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
-been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
-home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
-died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
-I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
-old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
-have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
-sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
-a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
-but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
-
-“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
-
-“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
-undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
-weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
-heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
-its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
-service, idly burning away.”
-
-“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
-than you were before you knew me--”
-
-“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
-anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
-
-“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
-attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
-make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
-good, with you, at all?”
-
-“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
-here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
-the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
-and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
-deplore and pity.”
-
-“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
-all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
-and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
-me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
-was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
-alone, and will be shared by no one?”
-
-“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”
-
-“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
-yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”
-
-“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”
-
-He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
-
-“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
-conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
-again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
-the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
-shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
-to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
-in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”
-
-He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
-sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
-down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
-stood looking back at her.
-
-“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
-hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
-but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
-wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
-shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
-what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
-to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”
-
-“I will, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
-you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
-between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
-it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
-you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
-there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
-embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
-me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
-thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
-ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
-and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
-grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
-happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
-beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
-a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”
-
-He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Honest Tradesman
-
-
-To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
-Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
-variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
-upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
-not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
-westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
-both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
-the sun goes down!
-
-With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
-like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
-watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
-running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
-since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
-women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
-Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
-companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
-to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
-have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
-the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
-purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
-
-Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
-the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
-but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
-
-It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
-few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
-unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
-Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
-unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
-attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
-funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
-funeral, which engendered uproar.
-
-“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
-buryin'.”
-
-“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.
-
-The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
-significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
-his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
-
-“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
-to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
-_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
-let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
-hear?”
-
-“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
-
-“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
-harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
-
-His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
-round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
-there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
-considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
-appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
-surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
-incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
- with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
-
-Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
-always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
-Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
-excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
-
-“What is it, brother? What's it about?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
-
-He asked another man. “Who is it?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
-nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
-greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
-
-At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
-against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
-funeral of one Roger Cly.
-
-“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
-Spi--i--ies!”
-
-“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
-assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”
-
-“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
-out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”
-
-The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
-that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
-suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
-so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
-doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
-for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
-that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
-shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
-other symbolical tears.
-
-These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
-enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
-crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
-They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
-out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
-its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
-much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
-the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
-while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
-exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
-was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
-the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
-coach.
-
-The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
-the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
-remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
-members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
-The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
-hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
-close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
-by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
-popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
-ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
-bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
-that part of the procession in which he walked.
-
-Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
-caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
-at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
-was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
-in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
-accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
-highly to its own satisfaction.
-
-The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
-providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
-genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
-passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
-was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
-the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
-they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
-window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
-and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
-been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
-the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
-coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
-the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
-progress of a mob.
-
-Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
-behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
-The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
-neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
-maturely considering the spot.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
-“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
-was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”
-
-Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
-himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
-station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
-his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
-amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
-man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
-his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
-
-Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
-job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
-usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
-
-“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
-entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
-shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
-for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
-
-The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
-
-“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
-angry apprehension.
-
-“I am saying nothing.”
-
-“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
-You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
-yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
-but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
-ironical dissatisfaction.
-
-“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
-bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
-oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
-
-“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
-another bite.
-
-“Yes, I am.”
-
-“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
-
-“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
-where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”
-
-“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”
-
-“Never you mind.”
-
-“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
-
-“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
-gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
-going out, till you've been long abed.”
-
-He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
-most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
-conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
-to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
-conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
-on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
-he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
-person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
-honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
-professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
-
-“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
-honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
-of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
-tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
-on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
-customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”
-
-Then he began grumbling again:
-
-“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
-know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
-flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
-your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
-and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”
-
-This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
-perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
-all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
-function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
-
-Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
-was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
-obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
-solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
-o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
-took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
-forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
-fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
-in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
-extinguished the light, and went out.
-
-Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
-bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
-followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
-court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
-his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
-door stood ajar all night.
-
-Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
-father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
-walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
-honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
-gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
-the two trudged on together.
-
-Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
-winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
-lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
-that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
-second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
-himself into two.
-
-The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
-under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
-brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
-wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
-the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
-Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
-Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
-defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
-He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
-third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
-there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
-and knees.
-
-It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
-holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
-in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
-and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
-that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
-tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
-creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
-fish.
-
-They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
-appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
-Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
-striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
-with his hair as stiff as his father's.
-
-But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
-only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
-were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
-the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
-screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
-strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
-earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
-it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
-wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
-made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
-
-He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
-it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
-to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
-was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
-upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
-and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
-shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
-was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
-roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
-like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
-too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
-to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
-and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
-incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
-got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
-it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
-stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
-his breast when he fell asleep.
-
-From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
-daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
-family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
-inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
-ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
-bed.
-
-“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
-
-“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.
-
-“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
-and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
-you?”
-
-“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.
-
-“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
-honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
-husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”
-
-“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”
-
-“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
-honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
-when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
-wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
-woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
-no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
-of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”
-
-The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
-the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
-at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
-his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
-down too, and fell asleep again.
-
-There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
-Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
-by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
-he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
-and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
-ostensible calling.
-
-Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
-along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
-from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
-solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
-and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
-improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
-that fine morning.
-
-“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
-at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
-Resurrection-Man?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
-should I know?”
-
-“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.
-
-“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
-hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”
-
-“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.
-
-“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
-branch of Scientific goods.”
-
-“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.
-
-“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
-growed up!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
-“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
-your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
-there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
-for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
-to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
-himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
-yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”
-
-
-
-
-XV. Knitting
-
-
-There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
-Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
-through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
-measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
-of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
-he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
-influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
-vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
-Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
-the dregs of it.
-
-This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
-early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
-on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
-brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
-slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
-not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
-were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
-have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
-and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
-looks.
-
-Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
-was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
-threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
-only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
-wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
-and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
-humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
-
-A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
-observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
-at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
-gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
-towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
-of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
-with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
-a long way off.
-
-Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
-high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
-his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
-mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
-the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
-of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
-flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
-followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
-the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
-
-“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
-an answering chorus of “Good day!”
-
-“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.
-
-Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
-their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
-
-“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
-travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
-Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
-He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
-drink, my wife!”
-
-A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
-mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
-and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
-bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
-Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
-
-Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
-than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
-rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
-He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
-Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
-
-“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.
-
-“Yes, thank you.”
-
-“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
-occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”
-
-Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
-courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
-staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
-sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
-
-No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
-gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
-man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
-him through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
-
-“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
-encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
-Speak, Jacques Five!”
-
-The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
-it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”
-
-“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
-commencement.”
-
-“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
-running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
-chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
-going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
-hanging by the chain--like this.”
-
-Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
-he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
-the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
-during a whole year.
-
-Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
-
-“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
-
-Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
-
-“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
-finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
-'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”
-
-“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.
-
-“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
-confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
-offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
-standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
-My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”
-
-“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
-interrupted. “Go on!”
-
-“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
-is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”
-
-“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
-he is unluckily found. Go on!”
-
-“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
-go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
-village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
-coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
-with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”
-
-With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
-elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
-
-“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
-and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
-spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
-see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
-that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
-going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
-their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
-road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
-Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
-with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
-to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
-be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
-on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”
-
-He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
-vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
-
-“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
-show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
-our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
-village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
-follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
-shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
-consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”
-
-He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
-butt-ends of muskets.
-
-“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
-laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
-but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
-the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
-and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
-darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”
-
-He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
-snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
-opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”
-
-“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
-voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
-village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
-locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
-except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
-my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
-my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
-iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
-hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
-dead man.”
-
-Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
-of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
-countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
-authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
-and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
-his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
-intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
-over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
-standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
-light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
-him.
-
-“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.
-
-“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
-at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
-distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
-of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
-faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
-the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
-whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
-executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
-that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
-that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
-It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”
-
-“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
-“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
-yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
-sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
-hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
-his hand.”
-
-“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
-his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
-strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
-food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
-and struck him blows. You hear?”
-
-“I hear, messieurs.”
-
-“Go on then,” said Defarge.
-
-“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
-countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
-the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
-that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
-father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
-parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
-with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
-which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
-poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
-that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
-says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
-the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
-I am not a scholar.”
-
-“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
-and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
-all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
-nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
-the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
-attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
-when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
-done--why, how old are you?”
-
-“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
-
-“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
-it.”
-
-“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
-on.”
-
-“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
-even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
-night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
-the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
-Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
-the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
-water.”
-
-The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
-and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
-
-“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
-the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
-have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
-of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
-a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
-laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
-from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
-fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
-there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”
-
-They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
-on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
-spectacle.
-
-“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
-water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
-I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
-bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
-across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
-messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”
-
-The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
-three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
-
-“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
-and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
-warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
-walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
-you see me!”
-
-After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
-and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
-door?”
-
-“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
-top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
-
-The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
-the garret.
-
-“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”
-
-“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.
-
-“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.
-
-“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”
-
-The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
-gnawing another finger.
-
-“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
-can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
-safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
-be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”
-
-“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
-undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
-a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
-own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
-Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
-to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
-crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”
-
-There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
-hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
-very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”
-
-“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
-easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
-with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
-on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
-Court; let him see them on Sunday.”
-
-“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
-wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”
-
-“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
-to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
-him to bring it down one day.”
-
-Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
-dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
-pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
-asleep.
-
-Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
-in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
-dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
-new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
-unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
-his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
-he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
-contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
-might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
-into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
-murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
-with it until the play was played out.
-
-Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
-(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
-and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
-madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
-additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
-afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
-see the carriage of the King and Queen.
-
-“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.
-
-“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”
-
-“What do you make, madame?”
-
-“Many things.”
-
-“For instance--”
-
-“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”
-
-The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
-of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
-and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
-fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
-and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
-shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
-ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
-and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
-sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
-intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
-Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
-ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
-terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
-more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
-with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
-hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
-and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
-from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
-pieces.
-
-“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
-patron; “you are a good boy!”
-
-The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
-having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
-
-“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
-these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
-insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”
-
-“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”
-
-“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
-stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
-in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
-tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
-deceive them too much.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
-confirmation.
-
-“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
-it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”
-
-“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
-pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
-pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly yes, madame.”
-
-“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
-set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
-you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”
-
-“It is true, madame.”
-
-“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
-a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
-“now, go home!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI. Still Knitting
-
-
-Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
-bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
-darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
-the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
-the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
-the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
-for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
-scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
-stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
-terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
-the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
-village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
-when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
-faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
-up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
-look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
-stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
-was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
-everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
-scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
-crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
-skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
-started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
-who could find a living there.
-
-Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
-stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
-of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
-night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
-world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
-star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
-the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
-the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
-vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
-
-The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
-in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
-journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
-guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
-examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
-of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
-with, and affectionately embraced.
-
-When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
-and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
-picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
-streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
-
-“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
-
-“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
-commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
-can say, but he knows of one.”
-
-“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
-business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
-man?”
-
-“He is English.”
-
-“So much the better. His name?”
-
-“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
-been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
-correctness.
-
-“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”
-
-“John.”
-
-“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
-“Good. His appearance; is it known?”
-
-“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
-complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
-thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
-sinister.”
-
-“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
-registered to-morrow.”
-
-They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
-and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
-the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
-stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
-her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
-dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
-of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
-handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
-night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
-up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
-condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
-walked up and down through life.
-
-The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
-neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
-by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
-it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
-whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
-
-“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
-money. “There are only the usual odours.”
-
-“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.
-
-“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
-never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
-him. “Oh, the men, the men!”
-
-“But my dear!” began Defarge.
-
-“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
-faint of heart to-night, my dear!”
-
-“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
-breast, “it _is_ a long time.”
-
-“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
-Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”
-
-“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
-Defarge.
-
-“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
-the lightning? Tell me.”
-
-Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
-too.
-
-“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
-swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
-earthquake?”
-
-“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.
-
-“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
-before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
-seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”
-
-She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
-
-“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
-“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
-coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
-is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
-that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
-the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
-more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
-you.”
-
-“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
-a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
-attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
-it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
-it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”
-
-“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
-were another enemy strangled.
-
-“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
-“We shall not see the triumph.”
-
-“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
-strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
-my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
-certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
-would--”
-
-Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
-
-“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
-cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”
-
-“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
-and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
-When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
-time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”
-
-Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
-little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
-out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
-manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
-
-Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
-wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
-now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
-usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
-drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
-and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
-perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
-dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
-out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
-themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
-the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
-thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
-
-A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
-felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
-rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
-
-It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
-customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
-wine-shop.
-
-“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.
-
-“Good day, monsieur.”
-
-She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
-“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
-hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
-thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
-expression! Good day, one and all!”
-
-“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
-mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
-
-Madame complied with a polite air.
-
-“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
-
-It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
-Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
-however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
-visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
-of observing the place in general.
-
-“You knit with great skill, madame.”
-
-“I am accustomed to it.”
-
-“A pretty pattern too!”
-
-“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
-
-“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
-
-“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
-fingers moved nimbly.
-
-“Not for use?”
-
-“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
-madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
-coquetry, “I'll use it!”
-
-It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
-decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
-men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
-catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
-looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
-Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
-one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
-but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
-poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
-unimpeachable.
-
-“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
-and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
-'BARSAD' before you go.”
-
-“You have a husband, madame?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“Children?”
-
-“No children.”
-
-“Business seems bad?”
-
-“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
-
-“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”
-
-“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
-extra something into his name that boded him no good.
-
-“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
-Of course.”
-
-“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
-enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
-think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
-it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
-embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”
-
-The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
-not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
-stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
-Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
-
-“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
-Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
-
-“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
-for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
-price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”
-
-“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
-that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
-susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
-is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
-fellow? Between ourselves.”
-
-“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.
-
-“Is there not?”
-
-“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.
-
-As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
-him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
-Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
-
-“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
-confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
-
-“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
-“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”
-
-“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
-day!”
-
-“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.
-
-“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
-you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
-and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”
-
-“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
-of it.”
-
-Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
-hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
-person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
-have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
-attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
-water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
-out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
-it.
-
-“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
- observed Defarge.
-
-“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
-in its miserable inhabitants.”
-
-“Hah!” muttered Defarge.
-
-“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
- pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
-associations with your name.”
-
-“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.
-
-“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
-had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
-informed of the circumstances?”
-
-“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
-to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
-warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
-
-“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
-from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
-monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
-Tellson and Company--over to England.”
-
-“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.
-
-“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
-Manette and his daughter, in England.”
-
-“Yes?” said Defarge.
-
-“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.
-
-“No,” said Defarge.
-
-“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
-song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
-arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
-they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
-no correspondence.”
-
-“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”
-
-“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
-ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”
-
-“Oh! You know I am English.”
-
-“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
-suppose the man is.”
-
-He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
-of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
-end, he added:
-
-“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
-one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
-poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
-going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
-was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
-Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
-Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”
-
-Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
-effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
-as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
-troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
-spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
-
-Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
-worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
-paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
-in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
-pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
-after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
-husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
-come back.
-
-“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
-as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
-said of Ma'amselle Manette?”
-
-“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
-is probably false. But it may be true.”
-
-“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.
-
-“If it is?” repeated his wife.
-
-“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
-sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”
-
-“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
-“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
-to end him. That is all I know.”
-
-“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
-Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
-“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
-husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
-the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”
-
-“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
-madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
-for their merits; that is enough.”
-
-She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
-took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
-Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
-decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
-disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
-shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
-
-In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
-himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
-to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
-Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
-to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
-her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
-knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
-mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
-jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
-the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
-
-But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
-Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
-among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
-behind.
-
-Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
-great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
-grand woman!”
-
-Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
-the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
-the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
-darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
-pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
-thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
-wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
-Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
-knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
-a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
-counting dropping heads.
-
-
-
-
-XVII. One Night
-
-
-Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
-Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
-under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
-radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
-seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
-
-Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
-for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
-
-“You are happy, my dear father?”
-
-“Quite, my child.”
-
-They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
-was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
-in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
-both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
-time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
-
-“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
-love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
-for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
-if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
-the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
-self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”
-
-Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
-
-In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
-upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
-the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
-its going.
-
-“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
-quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
-ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
-own heart, do you feel quite certain?”
-
-Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
-scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
-added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
-seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
-was--without it.”
-
-“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”
-
-“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
-it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
-fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
-wasted--”
-
-She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
-the word.
-
-“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
-natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
-comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
-how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”
-
-“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
-with you.”
-
-He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
-without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
-
-“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
-Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
-should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
-cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”
-
-It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
-refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
-sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
-afterwards.
-
-“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
-“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
-light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
-of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
-my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
-that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
-could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
-with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
-manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
-and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”
-
-The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
-deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
-the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
-cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
-
-“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
-child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
-been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
-was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
-imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
-was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
-to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
-will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
-
-She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
-
-“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
-me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
-cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
-to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
-the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
-blank.”
-
-“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
-never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
-
-“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
-brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
-the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”
-
-“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”
-
-“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
-have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
-like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
-foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
-leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
-image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
-her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
-But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”
-
-“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”
-
-“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
-sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
-and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
-that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
-have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
-I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
-perplexed distinctions.”
-
-His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
-cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
-
-“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
-coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
-life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
-was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
-cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”
-
-“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
-that was I.”
-
-“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
-they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
-a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
-up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
-imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
-But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
-blessed her.”
-
-“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
-me as fervently to-morrow?”
-
-“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
-for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
-happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
-happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”
-
-He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
-Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
-house.
-
-There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
-be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
-change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
-by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
-apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
-
-Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
-three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
-was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
-little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
-
-So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
-But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
-downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
-beforehand.
-
-All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
-asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
-hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
-shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
-then, leaned over him, and looked at him.
-
-Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
-covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
-mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
-resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
-beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
-
-She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
-she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
-sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
-more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
-of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
-in praying for him.
-
-
-
-
-XVIII. Nine Days
-
-
-The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
-closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
-Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
-Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
-reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
-but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
-have been the bridegroom.
-
-“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
-and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
-pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
-you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
-what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
-on my friend Mr. Charles!”
-
-“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
-therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”
-
-“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”
-
-“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
-on occasion.)
-
-“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
-a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
-anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
-Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
-I couldn't see it.”
-
-“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
-had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
-invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
-speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
-might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”
-
-“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.
-
-“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
-gentleman of that name.
-
-“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
-
-“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
-seems probable, too.”
-
-“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
-were put in your cradle.”
-
-“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
-with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
-pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
-her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
-I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
-opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
-your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
-own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
-fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
-shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
-the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
-your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
-him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
-Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
-old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
-own.”
-
-For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
-well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
-golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
-delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
-
-The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
-Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
-went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
-But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
-shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
-old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
-wind.
-
-He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
-which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
-another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
-eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
-
-Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
-group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
-glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
-dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
-breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
-mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
-mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
-door at parting.
-
-It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
-cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
-enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”
-
-And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
-gone.
-
-The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
-preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
-and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
-the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
-change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
-there, had struck him a poisoned blow.
-
-He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
-expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
-the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
-manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
-room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
-wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
-
-“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
-think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
-I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
-presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
-there, and all will be well.”
-
-It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
-Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
-old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
-into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
-
-“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”
-
-Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
-lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
-He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”
-
-Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
-Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
-when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
-down, and he was very busy.
-
-“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”
-
-The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
-were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.
-
-He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
-throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
-haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
-hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
-shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
-him, and asked what it was.
-
-“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
-ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”
-
-“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”
-
-He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
-his work.
-
-“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
-occupation. Think, dear friend!”
-
-Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
-a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
-a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
-words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
-the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
-he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
-seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
-trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.
-
-Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
-all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
-the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
-conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
-precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
-few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
-on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
-called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
-two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
-addressed to her by the same post.
-
-These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
-the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
-another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
-thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
-
-In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
-being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
-attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
-therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
-first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
-room.
-
-He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
-to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
-attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
-before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
-fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
-window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
-natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
-
-Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
-that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
-after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
-When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
-and said to him:
-
-“Will you go out?”
-
-He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
-looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
-
-“Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
-Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
-with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
-some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
-business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
-
-Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
-at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
-time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
-fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
-bench and to work.
-
-On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
-and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
-returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
-that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
-to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
-at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
-present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
-amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
-enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
-friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
-appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
-him.
-
-When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
-
-“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”
-
-As before, he repeated, “Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
-from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
-meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
-sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
-slipped away to his bench.
-
-The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
-heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
-The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
-seven days, eight days, nine days.
-
-With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
-heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
-well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
-observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
-was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
-his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
-the dusk of the ninth evening.
-
-
-
-
-XIX. An Opinion
-
-
-Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
-tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
-into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
-night.
-
-He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
-done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
-Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
-and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
-at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
-Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
-studious and attentive.
-
-Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
-giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
-not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
-friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
-as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
-which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
-
-It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
-answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
-corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
-How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
-Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
-Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?
-
-Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
-had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
-resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
-He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
-breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
-had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
-Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
-the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
-
-Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
-out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
-toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
-white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
-usual way, and came to breakfast.
-
-So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
-delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
-advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
-place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
-the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
-counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
-he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
-he sought. And that aid was his own.
-
-Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
-Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
-
-“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
-very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
-very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
-so.”
-
-Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
-Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
-at his hands more than once.
-
-“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
-arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
-give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
-for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”
-
-“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
-shock--?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”
-
-Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
-
-“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
-of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
-the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
-shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
-long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
-are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
-which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
-himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
-the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
-be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
-great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
-stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
-there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”
-
-The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”
-
-“Nine days and nights.”
-
-“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
-resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”
-
-“That is the fact.”
-
-“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
-collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
-originally?”
-
-“Once.”
-
-“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
-respects--as he was then?”
-
-“I think in all respects.”
-
-“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”
-
-“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
-It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”
-
-The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
-very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
-the two spoke for a little while.
-
-“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
-considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
-and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
-possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
-intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
-I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
-relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
-be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
-about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
-more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
-if I knew how.
-
-“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
-knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
-able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
-Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
-and teach me how to be a little more useful.”
-
-Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
-Mr. Lorry did not press him.
-
-“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
-“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
-unforeseen by its subject.”
-
-“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
-
-“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
-
-“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
-mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
-himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”
-
-“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
-upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
-him?”
-
-“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
-believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”
-
-“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
-after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
-attack?”
-
-“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
-extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
-was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
-distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
-there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
-would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
-particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
-effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”
-
-“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
-with natural hesitation.
-
-The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
-answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
-
-“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
-
-“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
-great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
-should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
-something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
-and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
-the worst was over.”
-
-“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
-
-“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
-be instructed. I may go on?”
-
-“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
-hand.
-
-“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
-he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
-knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
-he do too much?”
-
-“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
-singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
-part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
-things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
-direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”
-
-“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
-
-“I think I am quite sure of it.”
-
-“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”
-
-“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
-violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
-
-“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
-that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
-disorder?”
-
-“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
-firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
-association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
-extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
-happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
-such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
-believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”
-
-He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
-would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
-confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
-endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
-confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
-really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
-be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
-conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
-last nine days, he knew that he must face it.
-
-“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
-so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
-will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
-case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
-time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
-found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
-him?”
-
-The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
-nervously on the ground.
-
-“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
-his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”
-
-Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
-ground.
-
-“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
-understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
-shook his head, and stopped.
-
-“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
-“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
-of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
-occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
-his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
-the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
-practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
-torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
-quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
-himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
-of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
-find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
-fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
-
-He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
-face.
-
-“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
-who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
-bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
-the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
-with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
-forge?”
-
-There was another silence.
-
-“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
-companion.”
-
-“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
-in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
-sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
-Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
-sake, my dear Manette!”
-
-Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
-
-“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
-it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
-let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
-passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
-three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
-day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
-had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
-explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
-she had no suspicions.
-
-On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
-his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
-carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
-guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
-Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
-which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
-burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
-purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
-shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
-and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
-while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
-traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
-crime.
-
-
-
-
-XX. A Plea
-
-
-When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
-offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
-many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
-in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
-about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
-
-He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
-speaking to him when no one overheard.
-
-“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
-
-“We are already friends, I hope.”
-
-“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
-mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
-friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
-
-Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
-good-fellowship, what he did mean?
-
-“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
-in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
-remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
-usual?”
-
-“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
-you had been drinking.”
-
-“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
-always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
-when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
-preach.”
-
-“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
-to me.”
-
-“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
-away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
-you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
-wish you would forget it.”
-
-“I forgot it long ago.”
-
-“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
-me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
-and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
-
-“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
-for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
-surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
-faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
-Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
-remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”
-
-“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
-you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
-don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
-say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”
-
-“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
-quarrel with _your_ light answer.”
-
-“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
-I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
-incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
-ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”
-
-“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
-
-“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
-any good, and never will.”
-
-“I don't know that you 'never will.'”
-
-“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
-to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
-reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
-permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
-be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
-resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
-furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
-doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
-should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
-dare say, to know that I had it.”
-
-“Will you try?”
-
-“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
-indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”
-
-“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
-
-They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
-afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
-
-When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
-Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
-this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
-problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
-bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
-him as he showed himself.
-
-He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
-wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
-her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
-marked.
-
-“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
-
-“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
-and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
-to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”
-
-“What is it, my Lucie?”
-
-“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
-ask it?”
-
-“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
-
-What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
-cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
-
-“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
-respect than you expressed for him to-night.”
-
-“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
-
-“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”
-
-“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”
-
-“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
-lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
-he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
-wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”
-
-“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
-astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
-of him.”
-
-“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
-scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
-now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
-even magnanimous things.”
-
-She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
-that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
-
-“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
-head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
-we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”
-
-The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
-Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”
-
-He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
-her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
-could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
-of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
-that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
-have parted from his lips for the first time--
-
-“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI. Echoing Footsteps
-
-
-A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
-the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
-her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
-companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
-the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
-years.
-
-At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
-when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
-dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
-afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
-Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
-doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
-her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
-footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
-be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
-eyes, and broke like waves.
-
-That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
-advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
-her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
-mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
-the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
-children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
-her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
-joy to her.
-
-Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
-weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
-their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
-echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
-step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
-Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
-unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
-plane-tree in the garden!
-
-Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
-harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
-pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
-smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
-leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
-tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
-departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
-forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
-
-Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
-echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
-of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
-mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
-murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
-the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
-dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
-the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
-
-The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
-half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
-uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
-done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
-regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
-all true echoes for ages and ages.
-
-No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
-blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
-but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
-delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
-such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
-was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
-and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
-him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”
-
-Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
-forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
-his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
-in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
-life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
-stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
-it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
-state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
-rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
-property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
-but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
-
-These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
-offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
-sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
-Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
-bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
-rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
-Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
-training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
-pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
-declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
-Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
-diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
-to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
-parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
-latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
-it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
-originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
-off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
-
-These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
-amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
-daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
-child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
-and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
-Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
-with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
-waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
-in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
-more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
-many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
-to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
-the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
-as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
-have too much to do?”
-
-But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
-in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
-little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
-as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
-
-On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
-Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
-her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
-all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
-lightning from the same place.
-
-“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
-I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
-business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
-to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
-run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
-to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
-among some of them for sending it to England.”
-
-“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--
-
-“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
-there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
-getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
-without due occasion.”
-
-“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”
-
-“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
-himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
-am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
-Manette?”
-
-“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
-
-“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
-which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
-reason. You are not going out, I hope?”
-
-“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
-Doctor.
-
-“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
-pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
-see.”
-
-“Of course, it has been kept for you.”
-
-“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”
-
-“And sleeping soundly.”
-
-“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
-otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
-all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
-come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
-the echoes about which you have your theory.”
-
-“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”
-
-“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
-are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”
-
-Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
-life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
-footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
-the dark London window.
-
-Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
-heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
-heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
-roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
-struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
-all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
-weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
-
-Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
-agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
-heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
-have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
-powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
-weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
-could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
-force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
-heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
-Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
-with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
-
-As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
-circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
-had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
-already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
-thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
-another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
-
-“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
-One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
-patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”
-
-“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
-knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
-in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
-and a cruel knife.
-
-“Where do you go, my wife?”
-
-“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
-of women, by-and-bye.”
-
-“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
-friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”
-
-With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
-into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
-depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
-beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
-began.
-
-Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
-towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
-the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
-a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
-wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
-
-Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
-cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
-all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
-Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
-the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
-wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
-
-“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
-the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
-cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
-revenge.
-
-Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
-drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
-displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
-weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
-at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
-execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
-furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
-single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
-towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
-by the service of Four fierce hours.
-
-A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
-perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
-the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
-wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
-walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
-
-So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
-draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
-struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
-outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
-made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
-Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
-inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
-exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
-furious dumb-show.
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-“The Records!”
-
-“The secret cells!”
-
-“The instruments of torture!”
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
-the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
-eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
-billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
-threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
-undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
-these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
-hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
-wall.
-
-“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
-there is no one there.”
-
-“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
-Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“The meaning, monsieur?”
-
-“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
-shall strike you dead?”
-
-“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
-
-“Monsieur, it is a cell.”
-
-“Show it me!”
-
-“Pass this way, then.”
-
-Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
-by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
-held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
-been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
-as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
-noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
-its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
-outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
-occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
-air like spray.
-
-Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
-hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
-and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
-waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
-linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
-there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
-but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
-tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
-and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
-to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
-come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
-
-The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
-the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
-in:
-
-“One hundred and five, North Tower!”
-
-There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
-with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
-stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
-across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
-on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
-the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
-
-“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
-Defarge to the turnkey.
-
-The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
-
-“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”
-
-“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
-
-“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
-with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
-wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
-a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
-me!”
-
-He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
-exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
-table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
-
-“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
-among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
- throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
-light higher, you!”
-
-With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
-peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
-and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
-and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
-in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
-into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
-cautious touch.
-
-“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”
-
-“Nothing.”
-
-“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
-them, you!”
-
-The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
-again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
-retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
-of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
-more.
-
-They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
-Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
-upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
-Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
-judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
-blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
-unavenged.
-
-In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
-encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
-decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
-woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
-“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
-remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
-the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
-close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
-be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
-long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
-when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
-upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.
-
-The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
-of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
-Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
-iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
-governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
-where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
-the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
-means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
-swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
-
-The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
-of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
-were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
-voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
-until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
-
-But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
-in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
-fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
-more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
-released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
-overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
-Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
-Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
-drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
-faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
-faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
-lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
-IT!”
-
-Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
-accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
-and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
-hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
-Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
-hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
-and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
-and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
-at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
-stained red.
-
-
-
-
-XXII. The Sea Still Rises
-
-
-Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
-his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
-the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
-Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
-Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
-Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
-themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
-portentously elastic swing with them.
-
-Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
-contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
-knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
-of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
-the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
-hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
-but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
-destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
-before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
-The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
-they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
-the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
-last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.
-
-Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
-to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
-sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
-grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
-already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
-
-“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”
-
-As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
-Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
-murmur came rushing along.
-
-“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”
-
-Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
-around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
- Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
-mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
-sprung to their feet.
-
-“Say then, my husband. What is it?”
-
-“News from the other world!”
-
-“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”
-
-“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
-that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”
-
-“Everybody!” from all throats.
-
-“The news is of him. He is among us!”
-
-“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”
-
-“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
-to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
-found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
-seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
-said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”
-
-Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
-never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
-could have heard the answering cry.
-
-A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
-steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
-was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
-
-“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”
-
-Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
-in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
-The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
-her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
-house, rousing the women.
-
-The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
-from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
-the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
-such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
-children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
-famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
-another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
-Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
-Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
-these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
-alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
-who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
-to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
-breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
-suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
-knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
-and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
-Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
-Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
-him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
-whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
-dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
-belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
-
-Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
-the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
-his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
-of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
-such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
-a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
-wailing children.
-
-No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
-this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
-open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
-and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
-from him in the Hall.
-
-“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
-with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
-Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
-under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
-
-The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
-her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
-others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
-clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
-and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
-expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
-a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
-wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
-to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
-telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
-
-At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
-protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
-too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
-stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
-him!
-
-It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
-had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
-wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
-her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
-had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
-perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
-out! Bring him to the lamp!”
-
-Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
-his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
-and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
-face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
-entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
-action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
-another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
-a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
-of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
-might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
-while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
-screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
-him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
-held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
-mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
-
-Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
-and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
-the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
-people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
-five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
-on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
-breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
-pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
-through the streets.
-
-Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
-wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
-long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
-they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
-embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
-again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
-frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
-slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
-common, afterwards supping at their doors.
-
-Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
-most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
-some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
-cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
-share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
-and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
-hoped.
-
-It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
-knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
-husky tones, while fastening the door:
-
-“At last it is come, my dear!”
-
-“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
-
-Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
-her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
-only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
-Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
-the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
-was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
-Antoine's bosom.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII. Fire Rises
-
-
-There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
-the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
-highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
-poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
-crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
-but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
-them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
-be what he was ordered.
-
-Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
-Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
-shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
-dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
-animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
-out.
-
-Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
-blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
-luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
-nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
-things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
-Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
-be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
-was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
-flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
-its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
-to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
-unaccountable.
-
-But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
-it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
-it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
-of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
-the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
-of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
-the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
-disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
-beautifying features of Monseigneur.
-
-For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
-dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
-to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
-thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
-he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
-and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
-foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
-a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
-without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
-aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
-mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
-highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
-with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
-
-Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
-as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
-could get from a shower of hail.
-
-The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
-and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
-in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
-intelligible:
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?”
-
-“All well, Jacques.”
-
-“Touch then!”
-
-They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
-
-“No dinner?”
-
-“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
-
-“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”
-
-He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
-steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
-it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
-thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
-
-“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
-time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
-
-“To-night?” said the mender of roads.
-
-“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
-
-“Where?”
-
-“Here.”
-
-He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
-one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
-of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
-
-“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
-
-“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
-here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”
-
-“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
-over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
-Well?”
-
-“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
-village.”
-
-“Good. When do you cease to work?”
-
-“At sunset.”
-
-“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
-resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
-wake me?”
-
-“Surely.”
-
-The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
-great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
-was fast asleep directly.
-
-As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
-away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
-by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
-now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
-heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
-his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
-The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
-red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
-beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
-and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
-of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
-footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
-with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
-leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
-sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
-secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
-with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
-Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
-drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
-this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
-looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
-obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
-
-The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
-brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
-of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
-them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
-the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
-to go down into the village, roused him.
-
-“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
-summit of the hill?”
-
-“About.”
-
-“About. Good!”
-
-The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
-according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
-squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
-appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
-When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
-as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
-curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
-together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
-looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
-chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
-alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
-chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
-the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
-to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
-
-The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
-solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
-the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
-flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
-swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
-the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
-stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
-had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
-heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
-branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
-lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
-was black again.
-
-But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
-visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
-Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
-picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
-and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
-Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
-stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
-
-A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
-there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
-spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
-space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
-Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
-impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
-mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
-with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
-sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.
-
-The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
-through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
-the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
-removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
-chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
-timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
-looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
-of lips, “It must burn.”
-
-As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
-village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
-fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
-lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
-every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
-occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
-Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
-that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
-authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
-and that post-horses would roast.
-
-The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
-raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
-infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
-and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
-torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
-two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
-again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
-and contending with the fire.
-
-The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
-scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
-figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
-lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
-dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
-heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
-splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
-birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
-trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
-roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
-destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
-abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.
-
-Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
-bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
-the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
-of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
-days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
-house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
-Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
-with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
-withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
-resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
-of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
-parapet, and crush a man or two below.
-
-Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
-distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
-combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
-ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
-which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
-A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
-the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
-Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
-rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
-and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
-while.
-
-Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
-other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
-the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
-had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
-less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
-functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
-in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
-North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
-The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
-no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
-successfully.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
-In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
-the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
-flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
-the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
-of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
-tissue of the life of her home.
-
-Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
-the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
-feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
-a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
-danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
-in.
-
-Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
-his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
-to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
-this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
-infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
-ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
-boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
-and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
-sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
-
-The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
-mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
-eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
-Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
-out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
-outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
-all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
-“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
-
-The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
-come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
-
-As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
-Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
-haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
-without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
-Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
-to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
-house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
-from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
-storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
-provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
-by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
-from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
-a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
-time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
-was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
-consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
-out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
-through Temple Bar to read.
-
-On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
-Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
-penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
-the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
-hour or so of the time of closing.
-
-“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
-Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”
-
-“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
-disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
-
-“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
-some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
-enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
-upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
-interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
-disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
-House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
-old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
-long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
-myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
-these years, who ought to be?”
-
-“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
-and like one thinking aloud.
-
-“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
-Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
-are a wise counsellor.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
-thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
-my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
-the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
-here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
-and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
-after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
-
-“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
-are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
-France at this time of day!”
-
-“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
-more to the purpose that you say you are.”
-
-“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
-glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
-conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
-of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
-Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
-of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
-might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
-afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
-with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
-getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
-precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
-I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
-bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
-the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
-
-“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
-the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
-Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
-impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
-to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
-whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
-every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
-the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
-as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
-
-“And do you really go to-night?”
-
-“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
-delay.”
-
-“And do you take no one with you?”
-
-“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
-to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
-bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
-Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
-of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
-master.”
-
-“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
-youthfulness.”
-
-“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
-commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
-live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
-
-This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
-Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
-would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
-much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
-was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
-terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
-the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
-omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
-millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
-should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
-years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
-vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
-restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
-and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
-without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
-such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
-in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
-already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
-
-Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
-way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
-to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
-them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
-accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
-of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
-with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
-going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
-word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
-
-The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
-before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
-whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
-that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
-name. The address, turned into English, ran:
-
-“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
-France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
-London, England.”
-
-On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
-express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
-be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
-between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
-suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
-
-“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
-I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
-gentleman is to be found.”
-
-The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
-was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
-held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
-person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
-it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
-and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
-English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
-
-“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
-polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
-knew him.”
-
-“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
-been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
-hay--“some years ago.”
-
-“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
-through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
-Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
-the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
-
-“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
-fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
-
-Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
-the shoulder, and said:
-
-“I know the fellow.”
-
-“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
-times.”
-
-“But I do ask why?”
-
-“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
-hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
-who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
-ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
-that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
-man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
-because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
-why.”
-
-Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
-said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”
-
-“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
-Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
-understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
-tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
-to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
-gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
-“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
-find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
-precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
-of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
-
-With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
-shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
-his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
-in the general departure from the Bank.
-
-“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
-deliver it?”
-
-“I do.”
-
-“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
-addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
-that it has been here some time?”
-
-“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
-
-“From here, at eight.”
-
-“I will come back, to see you off.”
-
-Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
-Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
-letter, and read it. These were its contents:
-
-
-“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
-
-“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
-
-“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
-village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
-brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
-great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
-ground.
-
-“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
-life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
-the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
-emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
-against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
-before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
-imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
-had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
-an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
-
-“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
-emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
-not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
-ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
-
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
-succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
-Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
-
-“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
-nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
-assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
-
-“Your afflicted,
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-
-The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
-by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
-only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
-reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
-considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
-
-He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
-the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
-resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
-conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
-he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
-his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
-mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
-systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
-do it, and that it had never been done.
-
-The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
-always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
-which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
-annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
-following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
-these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
-without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
-the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
-until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
-France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
-confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
-was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
-France that might impeach him for it.
-
-But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
-far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
-relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
-favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
-bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
-on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
-there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
-in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
-the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
-own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
-
-This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
-that he would go to Paris.
-
-Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
-him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
-to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
-him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
-attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
-worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
-could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
-trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
-and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
-him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
-brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
-(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
-which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
-coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
-letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
-justice, honour, and good name.
-
-His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
-
-Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
-struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
-with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
-it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
-gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
-it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
-sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
-saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
-Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
-
-As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
-neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
-Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
-reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
-should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
-the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
-situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
-to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
-discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
-in his course.
-
-He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
-return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
-in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
-nothing of his intention now.
-
-A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
-booted and equipped.
-
-“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
-would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
-perhaps you will take a verbal one?”
-
-“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”
-
-“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
-
-“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
-hand.
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
-
-“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
-
-“Any time mentioned?”
-
-“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
-
-“Any person mentioned?”
-
-“No.”
-
-He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
-and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
-misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
-Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
- Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
-rolled away.
-
-That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
-two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
-he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
-that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
-personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
-their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
-strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
-in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
-
-It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
-reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
-preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
-But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
-resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
-so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
-the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
-scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
-(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
-of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
-streets, with a heavier heart.
-
-The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
-and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
-two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
-midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
-his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
-floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
-
-
-The end of the second book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
-
-
-
-I. In Secret
-
-
-The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
-England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
-ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
-horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
-unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
-but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
-these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
-citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
-of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
-inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
-turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
-hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
-Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
-Death.
-
-A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
-Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
-was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
-at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
-Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
-the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
-the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
-watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
-or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
-felt his freedom more completely gone.
-
-This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
-times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
-riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
-by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
-days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
-a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
-
-Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
-prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
-guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
-to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
-a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
-had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
-
-Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
-red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
-
-“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
-under an escort.”
-
-“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
-dispense with the escort.”
-
-“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
-of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”
-
-“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
-are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”
-
-“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.
-
-“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
-not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”
-
-“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
-and dress yourself, emigrant.”
-
-Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
-patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
-a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
-started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.
-
-The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
-cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
-side of him.
-
-The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
-his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
-wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
-faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
-and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
-change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
-between them and the capital.
-
-They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
-lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
-that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
-shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
-being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
-as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
-his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
-that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
-he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
-of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
-confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
-
-But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
-when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
-himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
-gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
-out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”
-
-He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
-resuming it as his safest place, said:
-
-“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
-will?”
-
-“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
-furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
-aristocrat!”
-
-The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
-bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
-be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”
-
-“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
-as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.
-
-Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
-yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
-the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
-voice heard:
-
-“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
-traitor.”
-
-“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
-is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”
-
-At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
-another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
-horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
-and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
-struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
-more was done.
-
-“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
-postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
-
-“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”
-
-“When passed?”
-
-“On the fourteenth.”
-
-“The day I left England!”
-
-“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
-others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
-condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
-your life was not your own.”
-
-“But there are no such decrees yet?”
-
-“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
-may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”
-
-They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
-then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
-wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
-unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
-lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
-cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
-would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
-circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
-up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
-Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
-into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
-wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
-that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
-the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
-way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
-
-Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
-closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
-
-“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
-in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
-
-Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
-speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
-in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
-imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.
-
-“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
-whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
-
-The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
-eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
-disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
-
-He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
-into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
-gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
-Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
-patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
-into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
-traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
-people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
-to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
-forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
-filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
-their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
-ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
-about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
-and women.
-
-When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
-things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
-who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
-escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
-to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
-turned and rode away without entering the city.
-
-He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
-and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
-drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
-waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
-light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
-the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
-uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
-officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
-
-“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
-paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
-
-“This is the man.”
-
-“Your age, Evremonde?”
-
-“Thirty-seven.”
-
-“Married, Evremonde?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Where married?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
-Force.”
-
-“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
-
-The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
-
-“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
-said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
-
-“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
-to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
-demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
-my right?”
-
-“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
-wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
-sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”
-
-Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
-him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
-them.
-
-“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
-guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
-Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
-
-“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
-Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”
-
-“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”
-
-The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
-with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
-and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”
-
-“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
-truth?”
-
-“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
-looking straight before him.
-
-“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
-sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
-little help?”
-
-“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
-
-“Will you answer me a single question?”
-
-“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”
-
-“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
-communication with the world outside?”
-
-“You will see.”
-
-“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
-presenting my case?”
-
-“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
-in worse prisons, before now.”
-
-“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”
-
-Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
-and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
-there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
-He, therefore, made haste to say:
-
-“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
-than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
-Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
-the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
-prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”
-
-“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
-my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
-I will do nothing for you.”
-
-Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
-was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
-how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
-streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
-their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
-otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
-more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
-going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
-passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
-audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
-family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
-it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
-foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
-Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
-watchfulness had completely isolated him.
-
-That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
-developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
-perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
-yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
-might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
-of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
-the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
-was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
-hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
-rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
-garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
-been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
-called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
-of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
-probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
-they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
-
-Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
-from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
-certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
-his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
-arrived at the prison of La Force.
-
-A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
-presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”
-
-“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
-bloated face.
-
-Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
-with his two fellow-patriots.
-
-“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
-“How many more!”
-
-The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
-replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
-responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
-the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
-conclusion.
-
-The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
-horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
-flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
-are ill cared for!
-
-“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
-if I was not already full to bursting!”
-
-He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
-awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
-fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
-either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
-subordinates.
-
-“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
-emigrant.”
-
-Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
-corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
-until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
-prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
-and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
-most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
-room.
-
-In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
-disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
-unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
-receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
-all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
-
-So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
-gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
-misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
-in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
-of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
-frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
-waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
-that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
-
-It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
-gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
-in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
-coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
-there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
-mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
-likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
-utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
-of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
-
-“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
-gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
-honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
-on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
-happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
-to ask your name and condition?”
-
-Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
-words as suitable as he could find.
-
-“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
-eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”
-
-“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
-so.”
-
-“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
-members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
-but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
-the society--in secret.”
-
-There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
-to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
-which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
-him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
-render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
-the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
-
-The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
-ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
-them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
-solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
-
-“Yours,” said the gaoler.
-
-“Why am I confined alone?”
-
-“How do I know!”
-
-“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”
-
-“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
-present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”
-
-There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
-the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
-walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
-the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
-was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
-a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
-gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
-dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
-with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
-is the first condition of the body after death.”
-
-“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
-paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
-counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
-drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
-shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
-paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
-“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
-them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
-embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
-hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
-through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
-made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
-a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
-his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
-and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
-still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
-knew, in the swell that rose above them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Grindstone
-
-
-Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
-in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
-the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
-a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
-troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
-mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
-metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
-of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
-besides the cook in question.
-
-Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
-sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
-willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
-indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
-house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
-things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
-precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
-of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
-Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
-drinking brandy in its state apartments.
-
-A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
-would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
-For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
-said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
-over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
-Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
-linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
-night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
-Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
-the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
-also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
-provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
-exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
-taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
-
-What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
-lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
-Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
-and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
-Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
-the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
-a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
-prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
-deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
-room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.
-
-He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
-he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
-derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
-building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
-that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
-his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
-was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
-of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
-great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
-open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
-to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
-or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
-objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
-opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
-he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.
-
-From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
-the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
-in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
-nature were going up to Heaven.
-
-“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
-dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
-who are in danger!”
-
-Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
-“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
-irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
-clash again, and all was quiet.
-
-The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
-uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
-awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
-go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
-opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
-amazement.
-
-Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
-that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
-seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
-force and power to it in this one passage of her life.
-
-“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
-matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
-What is it?”
-
-With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
-out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”
-
-“Your husband, Lucie?”
-
-“Charles.”
-
-“What of Charles?”
-
-“Here.
-
-“Here, in Paris?”
-
-“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
-collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
-us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”
-
-The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
-bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
-came pouring into the courtyard.
-
-“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
-don't touch the blind!”
-
-The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
-said, with a cool, bold smile:
-
-“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
-a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
-France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
-touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
-My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
-barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
-knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
-told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
-dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
-terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
-having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
-this fatal place. What prison is he in?”
-
-“La Force!”
-
-“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
-your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
-do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
-I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
-you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
-to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
-instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
-room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
-two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
-delay.”
-
-“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
-nothing else than this. I know you are true.”
-
-The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
-key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
-partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
-looked out with him into the courtyard.
-
-Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
-enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
-people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
-had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
-there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
-
-But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
-
-The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
-men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
-the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
-the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
-False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
-hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
-howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
-sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
-forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
-held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
-blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
-struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
-fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
-the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
-sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
-over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
-upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
-and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
-and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
-sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
-the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
-of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
-as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
-of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
-their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
-given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
-
-All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
-any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
-were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
-explanation in his friend's ashy face.
-
-“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
-the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
-say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
-have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
-may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”
-
-Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
-and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
-
-His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
-confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
-carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
-For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
-the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
-surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
-linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
-cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
-kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
-the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.
-
-He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
-and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
-assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
-her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
-surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
-watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
-
-Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
-clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
-bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
-charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
-the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
-
-Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
-irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
-“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
-sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
-and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”
-
-Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
-Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
-from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
-besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
-to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
-the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
-Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
-the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
-climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
-dainty cushions.
-
-The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
-and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
-alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
-never given, and would never take away.
-
-
-
-
-III. The Shadow
-
-
-One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
-Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
-imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
-the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
-for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
-he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
-man of business.
-
-At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
-the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
-the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
-same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
-most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
-its dangerous workings.
-
-Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
-tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
-that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
-Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
-this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
-he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
-went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
-in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
-of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
-
-To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
-giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
-He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
-considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
-A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
-and heavily the day lagged on with him.
-
-It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
-was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
-do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
-man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
-addressed him by his name.
-
-“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”
-
-He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
-to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
-emphasis, the words:
-
-“Do you know me?”
-
-“I have seen you somewhere.”
-
-“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”
-
-Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
-Manette?”
-
-“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”
-
-“And what says he? What does he send me?”
-
-Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
-words in the Doctor's writing:
-
- “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
- I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
- from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.”
-
-It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
-
-“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
-this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”
-
-“Yes,” returned Defarge.
-
-Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
-way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
-courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
-
-“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
-the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
-
-“It is she,” observed her husband.
-
-“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
-they moved.
-
-“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
-It is for their safety.”
-
-Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
-at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
-The Vengeance.
-
-They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
-ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
-and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
-tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
-delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
-the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
-
- “DEAREST,--Take courage. I am well, and your father has
- influence around me. You cannot answer this.
- Kiss our child for me.”
-
-That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
-it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
-hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
-action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
-to its knitting again.
-
-There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
-the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
-neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
-eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
-
-“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
-risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
-trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
-to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
-may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
-reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
-upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”
-
-Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
-gruff sound of acquiescence.
-
-“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
-propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
-good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
-French.”
-
-The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
-match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
-appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
-whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
-_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
-Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
-
-“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
-first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
-were the finger of Fate.
-
-“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
-daughter, and only child.”
-
-The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
-threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
-kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
-shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
-threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.
-
-“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
-may go.”
-
-But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
-presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
-she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:
-
-“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
-help me to see him if you can?”
-
-“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
-down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
-who is my business here.”
-
-“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
-will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
-afraid of you than of these others.”
-
-Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
-Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
-collected his face into a sterner expression.
-
-“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
-Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
-influence?”
-
-“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
-breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
-much influence around him.”
-
-“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”
-
-“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
-have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
-my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
-of me. As a wife and mother!”
-
-Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
-turning to her friend The Vengeance:
-
-“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
-as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
-known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
-often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
-themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
-sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”
-
-“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.
-
-“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
-again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
-and mother would be much to us now?”
-
-She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
-went last, and closed the door.
-
-“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
-courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
-late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”
-
-“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
-shadow on me and on all my hopes.”
-
-“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
-little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”
-
-But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
-for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Calm in Storm
-
-
-Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
-absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
-kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
-not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
-know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
-ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
-darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
-tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
-the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
-some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
-which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
-scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
-found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
-brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
-to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
-to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
-had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
-years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
-body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
-man was Defarge.
-
-That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
-that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
-to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
-dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
-and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
-a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
-to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
-examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
-the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
-to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
-the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
-the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
-inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
-was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
-Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
-assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
-delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
-often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
-had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
-
-The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
-intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
-saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
-those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
-been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
-thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
-the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
-in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
-of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
-awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
-with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
-carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
-anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
-with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
-
-As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
-his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
-such dread experiences would revive the old danger.
-
-But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
-at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
-felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
-he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
-could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
-“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
-As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
-helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
-of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
-the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
-of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
-clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
-had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
-
-Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
-have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
-in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
-of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
-personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
-of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
-that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
-general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
-messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
-sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
-not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
-plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
-known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.
-
-This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
-sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
-Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
-but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
-time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
-and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
-Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
-that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
-ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
-that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
-trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
-and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
-affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
-rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
-curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
-natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
-couldn't be in better hands.”
-
-But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
-Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
-the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
-era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
-against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
-great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
-against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
-of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
-had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
-alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
-the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
-and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
-fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
-What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
-One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
-and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!
-
-There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
-measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
-time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
-count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
-of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
-unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
-head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
-head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
-widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
-
-And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
-all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
-revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
-revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
-which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
-any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
-with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
-these things became the established order and nature of appointed
-things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
-Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
-the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
-sharp female called La Guillotine.
-
-It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
-it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
-peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
-shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
-and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
-human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
-from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
-believed in where the Cross was denied.
-
-It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
-were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
-Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
-the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
-good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
-dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
-The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
-functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
-namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
-day.
-
-Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
-with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
-end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
-current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
-away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
-months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
-wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
-that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
-violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
-under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
-terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
-that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
-in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
-victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
-appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
-other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
-he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
-a Spirit moving among mortals.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wood-Sawyer
-
-
-One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
-sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
-husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
-tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
-women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
-old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
-daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
-and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
-Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
-bestow, O Guillotine!
-
-If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
-had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
-despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
-the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
-the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
-truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
-will always be.
-
-As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
-had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
-household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
-its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
-as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
-slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
-that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
-return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
-solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
-unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
-outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
-
-She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
-mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
-attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
-and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
-thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
-night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
-repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
-was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
-without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”
-
-They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
-father said to her, on coming home one evening:
-
-“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
-sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
-it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
-in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
-show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
-if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”
-
-“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”
-
-From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
-clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
-When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
-went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
-single day.
-
-It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
-of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
-end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
-her.
-
-“Good day, citizeness.”
-
-“Good day, citizen.”
-
-This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
-established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
-but, was now law for everybody.
-
-“Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“You see me, citizen!”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
-had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
-at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
-bars, peeped through them jocosely.
-
-“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.
-
-Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
-appeared.
-
-“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
-
-“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
-
-“Yes, dearest.”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
-call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
-comes!”
-
-The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
-
-“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
-Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
-Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
-family!”
-
-Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
-impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
-his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
-first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
-
-He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
-him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
-up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
-with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
-not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
-briskly fall to his sawing again.
-
-In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
-spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
-in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
-this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
-Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
-five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
-for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
-see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
-waited out the day, seven days a week.
-
-These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
-father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
-afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
-rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
-decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
-also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
-(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
-
-The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
-surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
-somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
-with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
-and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
-saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
-female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
-was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
-
-But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
-and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
-afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
-prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
-The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
-they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
-than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
-keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
-Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
-together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
-mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
-filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
-apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
-advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
-another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
-in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
-linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
-and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
-all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
-reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
-again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
-of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
-up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
-as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
-innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
-a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
-heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
-warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
-bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
-delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
-the disjointed time.
-
-This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
-bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
-fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
-
-“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
-had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
-
-“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
-frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”
-
-“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
-husband, and the mercies of these people--”
-
-“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
-the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
-kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
-
-“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
-
-“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
-
-“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
-“no.”
-
-A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
- from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
-Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
-
-“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
-and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
-“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-“For to-morrow!”
-
-“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
-to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
-before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
-that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
-Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”
-
-She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
-
-“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
-be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
-protection. I must see Lorry.”
-
-He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
-both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
-away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
-
-“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
-
-The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
-and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
-and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
-better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
-hold his peace.
-
-A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
-the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
-Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
-deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
-National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
-Fraternity, or Death!
-
-Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
-chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
-agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
-he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
-turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
-he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
-
-
-
-
-VI. Triumph
-
-
-The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
-Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
-read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
-standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
-inside there!”
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
-
-So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
-
-When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
-for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
-Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
-hundreds pass away so.
-
-His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
-to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
-list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
-names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
-summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
-guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
-where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
-arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
-creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
-scaffold.
-
-There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
-soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
-were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
-concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
-there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
-refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
-common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
-who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
-insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
-time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
-or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
-brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
-boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
-seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
-disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
-like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
-them.
-
-The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
-vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
-put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
-were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.
-
-His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
-and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
-at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
-usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
-honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
-without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
-spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
-anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
-the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
-knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
-knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
-her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
-he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
-remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
-his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
-in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
-himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
-be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
-the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
-in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
-Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
-wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
-Carmagnole.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
-as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
-which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
-decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
-the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
-
-“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”
-
-The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
-prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
-England?
-
-Undoubtedly it was.
-
-Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
-
-Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
-
-Why not? the President desired to know.
-
-Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
-to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
-his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
-acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
-England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
-
-What proof had he of this?
-
-He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
-Alexandre Manette.
-
-But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
-
-True, but not an English woman.
-
-A citizeness of France?
-
-Yes. By birth.
-
-Her name and family?
-
-“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
-sits there.”
-
-This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
-of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
-the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
-countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
-if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
-
-On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
-according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
-counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
-inch of his road.
-
-The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
-sooner?
-
-He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
-of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
-he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
-He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
-a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
-absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
-testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
-in the eyes of the Republic?
-
-The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
-bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
- until they left off, of their own will.
-
-The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
-that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
-to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
-but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
-the President.
-
-The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
-it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
-and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
-Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
-pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
-enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
-overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
-of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
-had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
-declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
-answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
-called Darnay.
-
-Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
-and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
-proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
-release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
-England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
-their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
-government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
-the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
-circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
-straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
-populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
-Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
-had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
-account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
-they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
-receive them.
-
-At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
-set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
-favour, and the President declared him free.
-
-Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
-sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
-generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
-their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
-these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
-to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
-was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
-at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
-prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
-his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
-exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
-people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
-the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
-streets.
-
-His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
-rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
-together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
-assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
-itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
-him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
-hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
-of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
-Republic!”
-
-The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
-for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
-crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
-Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
-concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
-turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
-which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
-shore.
-
-They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
-taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
-Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
-had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
-even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
-on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
-and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
-he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
-was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
-
-In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
-him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
-prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
-they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
-him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
-had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
-feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
-
-As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
-face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
-together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
-rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
-Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
-crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
-overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
-and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
-them away.
-
-After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
-before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
-breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
-after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
-his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
-lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
-rooms.
-
-“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
-
-“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
-prayed to Him.”
-
-They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
-his arms, he said to her:
-
-“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
-could have done what he has done for me.”
-
-She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
-head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
-had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
-strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
-tremble so. I have saved him.”
-
-
-
-
-VII. A Knock at the Door
-
-
-“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
-often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
-vague but heavy fear was upon her.
-
-All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
-revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
-vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
-many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
-her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
-heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
-The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
-the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
-them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
-his real presence and trembled more.
-
-Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
-woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
-no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
-he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
-them all lean upon him.
-
-Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
-the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
-because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
-had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
-the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
-partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
-citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
-occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
-Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
-night.
-
-It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
-Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
-house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
-of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
-Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
-below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
-himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
-employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
-Darnay.
-
-In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
-harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
-in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
-were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
-shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
-possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
-
-For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
-office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
-basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
-lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
-such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
-association with a French family, might have known as much of their
-language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
-direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
-pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
-was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
-introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
-the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
-of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
-made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
-one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
-
-“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
-“if you are ready, I am.”
-
-Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
-all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
-
-“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
-have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
-these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
-
-“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
- retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”
-
-“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
-Nick's.”
-
-“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
-meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
-and Mischief.”
-
-“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.
-
-“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
-among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
-smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
-streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
-Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
-pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
-May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”
-
-“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.
-
-“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
-that,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
-
-“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
-short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
-Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
-as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
-tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
-after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
-
-“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
-had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
-“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
-way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
-with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
-prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
-
-“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
-
-“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
-glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
-must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
-fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
-you move, Ladybird!”
-
-They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
-child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
-Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
-a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
-sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
-in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
-a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
-a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
-quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
-
-“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
-
-“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
-on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
-least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”
-
-“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
-and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
-
-“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
-
-As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
-
-“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
-
-“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
-shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
-to the door.”
-
-He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
-and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
-men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
-
-“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
-
-“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
-
-“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
-Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”
-
-The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
-to him.
-
-“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”
-
-“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
-know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
-stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
-moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
-the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
-woollen shirt, said:
-
-“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
-
-“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
-
-“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
-
-He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
-after a pause:
-
-“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
-the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
-had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
-
-The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
-
-“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
-
-“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
-more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
-a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
-The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”
-
-“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”
-
-“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
-Antoine here.”
-
-The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
-feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
-
-“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
-the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”
-
-“What other?”
-
-“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
-answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
-
-
-
-
-VIII. A Hand at Cards
-
-
-Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
-way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
-Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
-she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
-both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
-passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
-turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
-was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
-lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
-stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
-Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
-undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
-grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
-
-Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
-for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
-After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
-once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
-took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
-description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
-not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
-opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
-attended by her cavalier.
-
-Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
-playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
-bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
-the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
-resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
-popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
-like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
-the counter, and showed what they wanted.
-
-As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
-corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
-sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
-her hands.
-
-In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
-assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
-likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
-saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
-the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
-evidently English.
-
-What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
-voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
-Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
-ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
-not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
-Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
-account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.
-
-“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
-speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
-English.
-
-“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
-“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
-do I find you here!”
-
-“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
-man, in a furtive, frightened way.
-
-“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
-been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
-
-“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
-want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”
-
-Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
-affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”
-
-“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”
-
-Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
-word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
-through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
-so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
-of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
-language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
-pursuits.
-
-“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
-want?”
-
-“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
-from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
-affection.”
-
-“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
-lips with his own. “Now are you content?”
-
-Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
-
-“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
-surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
-you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
-do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
-am an official.”
-
-“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
-tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
-greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
-such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
-his--”
-
-“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
-the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
-as I am getting on!”
-
-“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
-rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
-loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
-and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
-detain you no longer.”
-
-Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
-culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
-ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
-her money and left her!
-
-He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
-condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
-merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
-all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
-hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
-question:
-
-“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
-or Solomon John?”
-
-The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
-previously uttered a word.
-
-“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
-was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
-calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
-you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
-name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
-was, over the water.”
-
-“No?”
-
-“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
-at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
-yourself, was you called at that time?”
-
-“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
-
-“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
-
-The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
-him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
-elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
-
-“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
-surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
-elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
-myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
-better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
-was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”
-
-Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
-who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
-
-“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
-of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
-an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
-faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
-a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
-the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
-direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
-sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
-conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
-nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
-to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“What purpose?” the spy asked.
-
-“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
-street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
-company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”
-
-“Under a threat?”
-
-“Oh! Did I say that?”
-
-“Then, why should I go there?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”
-
-“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
-
-“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”
-
-Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
-quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
-and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
-made the most of it.
-
-“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
-sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
-
-“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
-But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
-pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
-satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”
-
-“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”
-
-“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
-own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
-at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
-knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
-ready? Come then!”
-
-Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
-remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
-in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
-purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
-contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
-too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
-her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
-heed what she observed.
-
-They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
-Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
-Pross, walked at his side.
-
-Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
-little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
-picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
-into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
-ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
-which he saw a stranger.
-
-“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
-with the name--and with the face.”
-
-“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
-coolly. “Pray sit down.”
-
-As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
-by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
-immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
-look of abhorrence.
-
-“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
-brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
-relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”
-
-Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
-tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
-to return to him!”
-
-“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Just now, if at all.”
-
-“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
-have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
-over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
-messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
-earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
-of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
-might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
-silently attentive.
-
-“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
-Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
-would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”
-
-“Yes; I believe so.”
-
-“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
-to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
-power to prevent this arrest.”
-
-“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
-identified he is with his son-in-law.”
-
-“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
-chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.
-
-“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
-are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
-will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
-carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
-stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
-in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
-Barsad.”
-
-“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
-
-“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
-brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
-
-It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
-glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
-
-“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
-over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
-committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
-so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
-is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
-Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
-That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
-French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
-English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
-card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
-Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
-spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
-the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
-difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
-hand, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
-
-“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
-Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
-hurry.”
-
-He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
-drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
-into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
-poured out and drank another glassful.
-
-“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
-
-It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
-in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
-employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
-there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
-vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
-date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
-France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
-there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
-knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
-Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
-such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
-release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
-familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
-Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
-with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
-talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
-He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
-again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
-guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
-he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
-he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
-his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
-terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
-grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
-that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
-proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
-his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
-terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
-the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
-
-“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
-composure. “Do you play?”
-
-“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
-Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
-put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
-under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
-of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
-considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
-somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
-himself as to make himself one?”
-
-“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
-and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
-
-“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
-hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”
-
-“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
-relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“You think not, sir?”
-
-“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
-
-The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
-ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
-received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
-mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
-failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
-of contemplating cards:
-
-“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
-have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
-fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
-who was he?”
-
-“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
-
-“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
-at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”
-
-“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
-
-“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
-way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
-the face.”
-
-“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.
-
-“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
-glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
-French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”
-
-“Provincial,” said the spy.
-
-“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
-light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
-had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”
-
-“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
-aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
-me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
-distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
-attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
-of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
-multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
-to lay him in his coffin.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
-goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
-to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
-risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
-
-“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
-how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
-lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
-carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
-it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
-it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
-Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
-violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
-crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
-
-Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
-the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
-
-“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
-iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Who took him out of it?”
-
-Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”
-
-“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
-I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
-
-The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
-unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.
-
-“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
-that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
-take in. Me and two more knows it.”
-
-“How do you know it?”
-
-“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
-old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
-I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
-
-Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
-this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
-explain himself.
-
-“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
-ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
-wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
-in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
-throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
-quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”
-
-“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
-Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
-you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
-aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
-the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
-A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
-card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”
-
-“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
-with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
-of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
-he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
-man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
-
-“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
-Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
-that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
-be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
-liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
-guinea.”
-
-The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
-with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
-can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
-Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
-office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
-life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
-I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
-here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
-way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
-me?”
-
-“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”
-
-“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
- said the spy, firmly.
-
-“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
-Conciergerie?”
-
-“I am sometimes.”
-
-“You can be when you choose?”
-
-“I can pass in and out when I choose.”
-
-Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
-upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
-said, rising:
-
-“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
-the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
-into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Game Made
-
-
-While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
-dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
-at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
-manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
-leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
-and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
-questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
-his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
-hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
-infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
-of him.
-
-“What have you been, besides a messenger?”
-
-After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
-Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
-character.”
-
-“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
-at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
-as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
-description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
-get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
-Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
-
-“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
-yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
-would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
-is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
-it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
-to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
-up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
-fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
-yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
-their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
-out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
-Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
-goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
-in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
-a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
-ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
-it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
-and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
-undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
-with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
-much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
-prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
-all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
-once in--even if it wos so.”
-
-“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
-the sight of you.”
-
-“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
-“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”
-
-“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
-further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
-would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
-that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
-be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
-your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
-wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
-you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
-his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
-let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
-for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
-a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
-That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
-arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
-discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
-see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
-without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
-to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
-things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
-fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
-cause when I might have kep' it back.”
-
-“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
-that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
-action--not in words. I want no more words.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
-returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
-arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
-
-He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
-were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
-
-“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
-to him, once.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
-
-“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
-to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
-worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
-weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”
-
-“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
-Tribunal, will not save him.”
-
-“I never said it would.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
-darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
-weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
-and his tears fell.
-
-“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
-voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
-father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
-sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
-however.”
-
-Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
-was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
-that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
-unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
-
-“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
-interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
-him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
-to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
-see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
-evidently understood it.
-
-“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
-only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
-I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
-little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
-You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”
-
-“I am going now, directly.”
-
-“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
-on you. How does she look?”
-
-“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
-
-“Ah!”
-
-It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
-attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
-fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
-passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
-wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
-flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
-and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
-light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
-all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
-sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
-his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
-broken under the weight of his foot.
-
-“I forgot it,” he said.
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
-wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
-the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
-reminded of that expression.
-
-“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
-to him.
-
-“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
-unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
-have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
-my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”
-
-They were both silent.
-
-“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.
-
-“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”
-
-“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
-trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
-
-“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
-may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”
-
-“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
-you when you leave it empty!”
-
-“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
-is nobody to weep for me.”
-
-“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”
-
-“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”
-
-“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”
-
-“Surely, surely.”
-
-“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
-'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
-respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
-regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
-your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
-not?”
-
-“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”
-
-Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
-few moments, said:
-
-“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
-days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
-
-Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
-
-“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
-closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
-nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
-preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
-that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
-and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
-so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
-
-“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
-you are the better for it?”
-
-“I hope so.”
-
-Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
-his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
-are young.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
-age. Enough of me.”
-
-“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”
-
-“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
-habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
-uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”
-
-“Yes, unhappily.”
-
-“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
-place for me. Take my arm, sir.”
-
-Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
-few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
-there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
-again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
-the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
-“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
-her steps.”
-
-It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
-where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
-closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
-
-“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
-man eyed him inquisitively.
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“How goes the Republic?”
-
-“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
-to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
-exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
-
-“Do you often go to see him--”
-
-“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
-citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
-than two pipes. Word of honour!”
-
-As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
-how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
-to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
-
-“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
-English dress?”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
-
-“You speak like a Frenchman.”
-
-“I am an old student here.”
-
-“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
-him. “And take a pipe with you!”
-
-Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
-the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
-of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
-the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
-for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
-terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
-his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
-thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
-
-Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
-counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
-whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”
-
-Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
-
-“For you, citizen?”
-
-“For me.”
-
-“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
-consequences of mixing them?”
-
-“Perfectly.”
-
-Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
-one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
-and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
-glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”
-
-It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
-aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
-negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
-had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
-his road and saw its end.
-
-Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
-youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
-mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
-read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
-streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
-on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
-he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
-whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
-rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
-and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
-and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
-brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
-might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
-went on.
-
-With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
-going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
-surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
-were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
-of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
-profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
-the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
-along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
-material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
-the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
-interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
-short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
-the lighter streets.
-
-Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
-suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
-shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
-people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
-one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
-for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
-and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
-
-“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
-were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
-and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
-heard them always.
-
-The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
-water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
-picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
-of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
-sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
-and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
-Death's dominion.
-
-But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
-of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
-And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
-appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
-sparkled under it.
-
-The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
-friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
-houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
-bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
-longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
-stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”
-
-A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
-glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
-in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
-for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
-ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
-where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
-little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
-himself, went out to the place of trial.
-
-The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
-away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
-Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
-sitting beside her father.
-
-When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
-sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
-tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
-blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
-there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
-Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
-
-Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
-ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
-been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
-first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
-Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
-
-Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
-republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
-after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
-his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
-gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
-cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
-Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
-
-Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
-No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
-murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
-in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
-another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
-retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
-Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
-one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
-privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
-called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
-
-To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
-
-The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
-
-“Openly, President.”
-
-“By whom?”
-
-“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
-
-A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
-Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
-
-“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
-a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
-daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
-and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
-of my child!”
-
-“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
-the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
-to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
-Republic.”
-
-Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
-with warmth resumed.
-
-“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
-herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
-to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
-
-Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
-his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
-closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
-and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
-
-Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
-being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
-his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
-and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
-This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
-
-“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
-best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
-there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
-it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”
-
-It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
-thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
-Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
- wherein she was likewise much commended.
-
-“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
-citizen.”
-
-“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
-bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
-“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
-known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
-knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
-when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
-when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
-the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
-gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
-stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
-that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
-of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
-I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
-the President.”
-
-“Let it be read.”
-
-In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
-lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
-solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
-reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
-never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
-intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
-follows.
-
-
-
-
-X. The Substance of the Shadow
-
-
-“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
-afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
-cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
-it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
-in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
-place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
-and my sorrows are dust.
-
-“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
-difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
-with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
-has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
-noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
-solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
-mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
-truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
-be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
-
-“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
-twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
-part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
-at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
-School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
-fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
-might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
-voice called to the driver to stop.
-
-“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
-and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
-was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
-door and alight before I came up with it.
-
-“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
-conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
-I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
-younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
-and (as far as I could see) face too.
-
-“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
-physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
-has made a rising reputation in Paris?'
-
-“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
-graciously.'
-
-“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
-so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
-probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
-overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'
-
-“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
-were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
-They were armed. I was not.
-
-“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
-the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
-which I am summoned.'
-
-“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
-your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
-our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
-yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
-enter the carriage?'
-
-“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
-entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
-carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
-
-“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
-it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
-place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
-the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
-paper in its hiding-place.
-
- *****
-
-“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
-emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
-Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
-when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
-stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
-a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
-overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
-answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
-the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
-
-“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
-for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
-other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
-with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
-alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
-
-“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
-locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
-relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
-conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
-ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
-lying on a bed.
-
-“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
-past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
-her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
-all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
-scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
-and the letter E.
-
-“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
-for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
-edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
-in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
-her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
-corner caught my sight.
-
-“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
-and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
-wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
-words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
-twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
-to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
-would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
-would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
-order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
-pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
-
-“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'
-
-“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
-younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
-was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'
-
-“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
-
-“'A brother.'
-
-“'I do not address her brother?'
-
-“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'
-
-“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'
-
-“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'
-
-“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
-useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
-to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
-are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
-
-“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
-a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
-the table.
-
- *****
-
-“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
-lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
-poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
-
-“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.
-
-“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
-more.
-
-“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
-efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
-after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
-sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
-in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
-a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
-furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
-old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
-sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
-succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
-counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
-not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
-them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
-in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
-soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
-figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
-regular.
-
-“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
-the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
-before the elder said:
-
-“'There is another patient.'
-
-“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'
-
-“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
-
- *****
-
-“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
-was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
-to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
-there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
-the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
-pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
-and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
-this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
-captivity, as I saw them all that night.
-
-“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
-handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
-He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
-breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
-where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
-that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
-
-“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'
-
-“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
-
-“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
-The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
-before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
-without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
-brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
-ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
-as if he were a fellow-creature.
-
-“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.
-
-“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
-and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'
-
-“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
-answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
-have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
-have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
-vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
-the boy, or about his fate.
-
-“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
-slowly moved to me.
-
-“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
-proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
-we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'
-
-“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
-distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
-
-“I said, 'I have seen her.'
-
-“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
-Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
-have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
-so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
-tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
-The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
-
-“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
-to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
-
-“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
-are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
-work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
-to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
-for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
-plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
-ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
-people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
-and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
-dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
-most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
-race die out!'
-
-“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
-like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
-somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
-dying boy.
-
-“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
-poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
-him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
-been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
-her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
-us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
-hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
-then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
-willing?'
-
-“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
-looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
-opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
-Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
-trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
-
-“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
-harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
-drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
-grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
-may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
-night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
-not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
-could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
-bell, and died on her bosom.'
-
-“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
-tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
-he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
-wound.
-
-“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
-brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
-brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
-it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
-for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
-tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
-that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
-beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
-_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
-in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
-somewhere here?'
-
-“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
-him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
-over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
-
-“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
-dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
-at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
-make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
-that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
-at me with all his skill for his life.'
-
-“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
-a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
-another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
-
-“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
-
-“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
-referred to the brother.
-
-“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
-man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
-
-“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
-moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
-me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
-
-“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
-his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
-answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
-answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
-I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
-I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
-separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
-it.'
-
-“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
-forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
-finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
-down dead.
-
- *****
-
-“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
-in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
-for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
-grave.
-
-“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
-the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
-quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
-of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
-One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
-twelve. Hush!'
-
-“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
-come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
-falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
-by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
-
-“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
-fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
-compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
-her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
-a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
-had of her.
-
-“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
-elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
-
-“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
-
-“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
-at her with some curiosity.
-
-“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
-despair.'
-
-“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
-chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
-subdued voice,
-
-“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
-recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
-and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
-of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
-and not spoken of.'
-
-“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
-
-“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
-
-“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
-are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
-was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
-
-“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
-pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
-resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
-
- *****
-
-“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
-fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
-darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
-failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
-was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
-
-“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
-syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
-asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
-was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
-head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
-
-“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
-brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
-then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
-woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
-the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
-that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
-if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.
-
-“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
-brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
-peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
-of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
-to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
-brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
-for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
-me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
-in the mind of the elder, too.
-
-“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
-answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
-with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
-all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
-
-“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
-away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
-their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
-
-“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
-
-“'She is dead,' said I.
-
-“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
-
-“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
-gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
-the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
-nothing.
-
-“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
-
-“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
-them, and we parted without another word on either side.
-
- *****
-
-“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
-have written with this gaunt hand.
-
-“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
-little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
-considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
-to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
-summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
-circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
-of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
-heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
-profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
-in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
-I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
-compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
-
-“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
-night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
-It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
-completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
-
- *****
-
-“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
-so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
-dreadful.
-
-“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
-life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
-wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
-boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
-on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
-had seen that nobleman very lately.
-
-“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
-conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
-know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
-in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
-share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
-was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
-in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
-Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
-
-“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
-her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
-but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
-inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
-that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
-wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
-
- *****
-
-“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
-yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
-
-“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
-could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
-was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
-husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
-pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
-
-“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
-all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
-inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
-atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
-I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
-jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
-compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
-the sister can be discovered.'
-
-“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
-sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
-bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
-went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
-
-“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
-I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
-trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
-
-“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
-a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
-my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
-into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
-My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
-the gate, standing silent behind him.
-
-“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
-he had a coach in waiting.
-
-“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
-house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
-my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
-corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
-his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
-of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
-Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
-grave.
-
-“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
-brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
-my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
-dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
-now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
-they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
-last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
-night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
-when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
-and to earth.”
-
-A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
-sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
-blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
-and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
-
-Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
-how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
-Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
-time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
-anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
-The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
-sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
-
-And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
-well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
-of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
-the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
-self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
-said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
-physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
-rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
-a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
-orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
-human sympathy.
-
-“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
-smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”
-
-At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
-roar.
-
-Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
-of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
-Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
-
-
-
-
-XI. Dusk
-
-
-The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
-the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
-sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
-she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
-it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
-
-The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
-the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
-emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
-stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
-but love and consolation.
-
-“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
-you would have so much compassion for us!”
-
-There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
-taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
-show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
-him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
-passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
-leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
-
-“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
-shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
-
-They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
-
-“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
-for me. A parting blessing for our child.”
-
-“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
-you.”
-
-“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
-“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
-by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
-will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”
-
-Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
-of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
-
-“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
-to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
-you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
-know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
-her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
-duty. Heaven be with you!”
-
-Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
-and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
-
-“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
-together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
-discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
-near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
-nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
-bless you!”
-
-As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
-with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
-with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
-smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
-lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
-feet.
-
-Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
-Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
-with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
-Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
-flush of pride in it.
-
-“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”
-
-He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
-coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
-beside the driver.
-
-When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
-many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
-the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
-the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
-her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
-
-“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
-better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
-
-“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
-throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
-you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
-save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
-love her, bear to see her so?”
-
-He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
-put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
-
-“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
-
-It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
-with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
-him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
-handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
-
-When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
-and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
-
-“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
-be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
-you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
-
-“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
-strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
-answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
-
-“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
-and short, but try.”
-
-“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
-
-“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
-now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
-great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
-it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
-were not.”
-
-“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
-straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
-write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
-one will be accessible until dark.”
-
-“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
-forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
-speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
-these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”
-
-“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
-this.”
-
-“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
-go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
-our friend or from yourself?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“May you prosper!”
-
-Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
-shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
-
-“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
-
-“Nor have I.”
-
-“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
-him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
-to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
-court.”
-
-“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
-
-Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
-
-“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
-Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
-consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
-thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
-
-“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
-But he will perish; there is no real hope.”
-
-“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.
-
-And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-XII. Darkness
-
-
-Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
-Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
-do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
-these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
-precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
-Let me think it out!”
-
-Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
-turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
-in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
-confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
-should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
-towards Saint Antoine.
-
-Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
-the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
-well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
-its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
-at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
-first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
-had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
-dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
-done with it.
-
-It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
-into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
-stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
-the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
-his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.
-
-There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
-restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
-the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
-Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
-a regular member of the establishment.
-
-As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
-French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
-glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
-to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
-
-He repeated what he had already said.
-
-“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
-eyebrows.
-
-After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
-slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
-accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”
-
-Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
-took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
-meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”
-
-Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
-
-“How?”
-
-“Good evening.”
-
-“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
-drink to the Republic.”
-
-Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
- Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
-pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
- The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
-are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
-to-morrow!”
-
-Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
-forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
-their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
-of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
-disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
-their conversation.
-
-“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
-is great force in that. Why stop?”
-
-“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
-the question is still where?”
-
-“At extermination,” said madame.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
-approved.
-
-“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
-troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
-suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
-the paper was read.”
-
-“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
-“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
-face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”
-
-“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
-“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
-
-“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
-his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
-have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
-I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
-finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
-his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
-if the axe had dropped.
-
-“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.
-
-“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
-
-“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
-depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
-man even now.”
-
-“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
-would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”
-
-“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
-too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
-tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
-doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.
-
-“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
-this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
-night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
-by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge.
-
-“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
-burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
-those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
-that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge again.
-
-“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
-hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
-among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
-by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
-family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
-was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
-was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
-those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
-descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.
-
-“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
-tell me.”
-
-Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
-of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
-her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
-a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
-only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
-the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”
-
-Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
-paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
-a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
-took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
-The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
-be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
-deep.
-
-But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
-prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
-himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
-walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
-until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
-keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
-banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
-mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
-more than five hours gone: where could he be?
-
-Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
-he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
-should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
-In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
-
-He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
-did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
-brought none. Where could he be?
-
-They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
-weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
-the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
-lost.
-
-Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
-time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
-them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
-
-“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”
-
-His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
-straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
-
-“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
-can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
-finish those shoes.”
-
-They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
-
-“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
-work. Give me my work.”
-
-Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
-ground, like a distracted child.
-
-“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
-cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
-not done to-night?”
-
-Lost, utterly lost!
-
-It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
-that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
-soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
-have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
-embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
-time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
-the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
-
-Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
-of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
-daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
-too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
-one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
-
-“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
-to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
-me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
-exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”
-
-“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”
-
-The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
-rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
-they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
-night.
-
-Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
-feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
-carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
-took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
-at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
-exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”
-
-“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
-
-“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
-his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
-enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
-an Englishman?”
-
-Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
-
-“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
-remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
-Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
-and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
-frontier! You see?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
-yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
-up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
-within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
-good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
-think, will be.”
-
-“They are not in danger?”
-
-“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
-Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
-woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
-colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
-confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
-is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
-Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
-name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
-the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
-involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
-both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
-will save them all.”
-
-“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”
-
-“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
-on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
-until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
-more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
-mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
-father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
-inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
-strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”
-
-“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
-the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
-of this distress.”
-
-“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
-as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
-completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
-horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
-afternoon.”
-
-“It shall be done!”
-
-His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
-flame, and was as quick as youth.
-
-“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
-Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
-and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
-beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
-on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
-the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
-her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
-depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
-father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
-
-“I am sure of it.”
-
-“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
-the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
-The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
-
-“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”
-
-“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
-reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
-then for England!”
-
-“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
-hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
-and ardent man at my side.”
-
-“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
-influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
-another.”
-
-“Nothing, Carton.”
-
-“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
-any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
-inevitably be sacrificed.”
-
-“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”
-
-“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”
-
-Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
-put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
-helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
-as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
-where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
-to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
-courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
-the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
-it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
-there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
-her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
-Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. Fifty-two
-
-
-In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
-their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
-to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
-everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
-were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
-the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
-apart.
-
-Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
-whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
-poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
-in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
-and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
-intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
-without distinction.
-
-Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
-flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
-of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
-fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
-that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
-avail him nothing.
-
-Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
-before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
-was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
-and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
-when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
-this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
-a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
-resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
-child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
-selfish thing.
-
-But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
-was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
-road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
-him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
-enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
-by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
-thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
-
-Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
-travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
-of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
-prison lamps should be extinguished.
-
-He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
-of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
-and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
-responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
-already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
-he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
-her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
-had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
-for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
-become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
-to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
-that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
-preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
-he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
-mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
-discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
-besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
-her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
-of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
-reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
-sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
-blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
-dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
-father.
-
-To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
-father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
-he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
-despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
-tending.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
-That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
-attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
-full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
-
-He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
-he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
-
-But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
-forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
-nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
-heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
-he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
-suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
-was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
-sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
-flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
-
-Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
-were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
-meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
-thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
-
-He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
-high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
-stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
-red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
-or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
-directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
-times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
-fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
-to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
-few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
-the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
-
-The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
-numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
-ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
-contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
-him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
-repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
-He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
-himself and for them.
-
-Twelve gone for ever.
-
-He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
-be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
-and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
-before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
-interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
-
-Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
-different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
-he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
-measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
-recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
-turned to walk again.
-
-Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
-
-The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
-as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
-me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
-no time!”
-
-The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
-face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
-features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
-
-There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
-first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
-imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
-hand, and it was his real grasp.
-
-“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
-
-“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
-are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”
-
-“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
-here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
-wife, dear Darnay.”
-
-The prisoner wrung his hand.
-
-“I bring you a request from her.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
-in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
-remember.”
-
-The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
-
-“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
-no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
-wear, and draw on these of mine.”
-
-There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
-Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
-him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
-
-“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
-them. Quick!”
-
-“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
-will only die with me. It is madness.”
-
-“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
-to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
-that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
-it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
-this of mine!”
-
-With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
-that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
-The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
-
-“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
-can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
-not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
-
-“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
-refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
-steady enough to write?”
-
-“It was when you came in.”
-
-“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”
-
-Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
-Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
-
-“Write exactly as I speak.”
-
-“To whom do I address it?”
-
-“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.
-
-“Do I date it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
-his hand in his breast, looked down.
-
-“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
-between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
-You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”
-
-He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
-up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
-something.
-
-“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.
-
-“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”
-
-“No; I am not armed.”
-
-“What is it in your hand?”
-
-“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
-dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
-them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
-words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
-moved down close to the writer's face.
-
-The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
-him vacantly.
-
-“What vapour is that?” he asked.
-
-“Vapour?”
-
-“Something that crossed me?”
-
-“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
-and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
-
-As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
-prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
-with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
-hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
-
-“Hurry, hurry!”
-
-The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
-
-“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
-softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
-If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
-should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
-otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
-unintelligible signs.
-
-Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
-with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
-nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
-seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
-life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
-the ground.
-
-Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
-dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
-his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
-softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.
-
-“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
-insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
-great?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
-hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
-the whole of your bargain.”
-
-“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”
-
-“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
-made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”
-
-“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
-rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
-take me to the coach.”
-
-“You?” said the Spy nervously.
-
-“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
-you brought me in?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
-take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
-happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
-Quick! Call assistance!”
-
-“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
-last moment.
-
-“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
-solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
-moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
-him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
-yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
-last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
-
-The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
-forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
-
-“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
-afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
-Sainte Guillotine?”
-
-“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
-if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
-
-They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
-brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
-
-“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.
-
-“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
-you, and leave me.”
-
-“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”
-
-The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
-listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
-suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
-footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
-made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
-sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
-
-Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
-began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
-finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
-saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
-at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
-within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
-the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
-standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
-but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
-fixedly at the ground.
-
-As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
-were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
-as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
-discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
-woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
-no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
-the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
-
-“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
-poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”
-
-He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”
-
-“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
-likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
-like me?”
-
-The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
-started from his eyes.
-
-“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
-am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
-to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
-Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
-
-As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
-warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
-
-“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”
-
-“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
-
-“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
-hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
-more courage.”
-
-As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
-them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
-fingers, and touched his lips.
-
-“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
-
-“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
-
-“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
-
-“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
-
- *****
-
-The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
-same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
-it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
-
-“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
-
-The papers are handed out, and read.
-
-“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
-
-This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
-pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
-Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
-
-Greatly too much for him.
-
-“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
-
-This is she.
-
-“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”
-
-It is.
-
-“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
-This is she?”
-
-She and no other.
-
-“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
-something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
-English. Which is he?”
-
-He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”
-
-It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
-he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
-under the displeasure of the Republic.
-
-“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
-displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
-Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”
-
-“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”
-
-It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
-is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
-door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
-carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
-carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
-the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
-mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
-an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
-
-“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”
-
-“One can depart, citizen?”
-
-“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”
-
-“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”
-
-These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
-looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
-is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
-
-“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
- asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
-
-“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
-it would rouse suspicion.”
-
-“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
-
-“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”
-
-Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
-dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
-trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
-either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
-stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
-sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
-wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
-anything but stopping.
-
-Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
-farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
-avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
-by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
-no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
-the posting-house.
-
-Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
-the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
-of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
-existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
-plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
-their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
-All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
-far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
-
-At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
-behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
-on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
-animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
-haunches. We are pursued?
-
-“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”
-
-“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
-
-“How many did they say?”
-
-“I do not understand you.”
-
-“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”
-
-“Fifty-two.”
-
-“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
-forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
-handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”
-
-The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
-to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
-by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
-us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
-
-The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
-the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
-us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Knitting Done
-
-
-In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
-Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
-Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
-erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
-conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
-was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
-
-“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
-Republican? Eh?”
-
-“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
-notes, “in France.”
-
-“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
-a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
-fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
-well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
-his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”
-
-“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
-with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
-citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
-
-“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
-his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
-me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
-child must follow the husband and father.”
-
-“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
-eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
-them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
-
-Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
-
-“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
-of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
-there. It is a pretty sight!”
-
-“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
-“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
-last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
-but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
-and then they might escape.”
-
-“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
-have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”
-
-“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
-pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
-regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
-therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
-submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
-
-“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
-“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
-this very day?”
-
-“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
-two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
-without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”
-
-He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
-imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
-never seen.
-
-“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”
-
-“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
-eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
-
-“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
-fellow-Jurymen.”
-
-“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
-Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
-I spare him?”
-
-“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
-“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”
-
-“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
-cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
-trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
-bad witness.”
-
-The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
-protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
-witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
-celestial witness.
-
-“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
-him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
-to-day executed.--You?”
-
-The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
-the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
-of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
-Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
-smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
-barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
-suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
-him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
-for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
-
-“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
-over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
-will give information against these people at my Section.”
-
-The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
-citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
-her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
-hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
-
-Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
-the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
-
-“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
-be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
-justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
-I will go to her.”
-
-“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
-Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
-embraced her.
-
-“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
-lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
-me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
-greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
-
-“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
-alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”
-
-“I shall be there before the commencement.”
-
-“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
-The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
-street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
-
-Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
-might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
-mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
-Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
-of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
-
-There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
-disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
-than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
-strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
-determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
-to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
-instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
-heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
-with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
-opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
-pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
-her.
-
-It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
-his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
-his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
-insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
-her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
-hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
-been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
-she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
-been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
-softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
-sent her there.
-
-Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
-worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
-dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
-bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
-dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
-a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
-walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
-sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
-
-Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
-waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
-the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
-attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
-but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
-it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
-escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
-Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
-and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
-three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
-Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
-passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
-advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
-of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
-
-Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
-pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
-beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
-passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
-their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
-taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
-else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
-
-“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
-was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
-“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
-carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
-suspicion.”
-
-“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
-wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
-
-“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
-Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
-_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”
-
-“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
-hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
-mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
-two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
-crisis?”
-
-“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
-them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
-
-“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
-an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
-more will I do it, never no more!”
-
-“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
-never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
-necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
-
-“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
-poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
-Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
-
-“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
-striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
-is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
-superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”
-
-“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
-most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
-be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
-opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
-hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
-time.”
-
-“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
-Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
-
-“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
-additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
-out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
-earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
-flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
-risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
-conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
-
-And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
-nearer and nearer.
-
-“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
-upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
-understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
-you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
-earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
-Cruncher, let us think!”
-
-Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
-and nearer.
-
-“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
-horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
-that be best?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
-
-“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
-Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
-Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
-
-“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
-the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
-towers?”
-
-“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
-straight, and make that change.”
-
-“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
-“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”
-
-“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
-Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
-and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
-of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
-that may depend on both of us!”
-
-This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
-clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
-immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
-to follow as she had proposed.
-
-The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
-execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
-her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
-streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
-minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
-
-Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
-rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
-in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
-which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
-could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
-dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
-was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
-out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
-
-The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
-Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
-those feet had come to meet that water.
-
-Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
-where is she?”
-
-It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
-and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
-four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
-the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
-
-Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
-and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
-about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
-of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
-way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
-
-“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
-Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
-me. I am an Englishwoman.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
-Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
-hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
-woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
-Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
-that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
-
-“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
-her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
-knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
-wish to see her.”
-
-“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
-depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”
-
-Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
-both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
-the unintelligible words meant.
-
-“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
-moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
-Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”
-
-“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
-was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
-you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”
-
-Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
-detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
-at naught.
-
-“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
-answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
-to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
- This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
-
-“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
-understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
-except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
-part of it.”
-
-Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
-Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
-first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
-
-“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
-English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
-greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
-dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
-
-Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
-between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
-Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
-
-But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
-irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
-Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
-laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
-Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
-of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
-answer the Citizeness Defarge!”
-
-Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
-expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
-either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
-Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
-
-“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
-are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
-you! Let me look.”
-
-“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
-Madame Defarge understood the answer.
-
-“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
-brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.
-
-“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
-uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
-know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
-that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”
-
-“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
-I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
-Madame Defarge.
-
-“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
-not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
-while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
-my darling,” said Miss Pross.
-
-Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
-moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
-It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
-with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
-clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
-that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
-face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
-clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
-
-Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
-waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
-shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
-you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
-
-Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
-what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
-alone--blinded with smoke.
-
-All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
-stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
-whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
-
-In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
-body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
-fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
-what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
-go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
-get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
-out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
-away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
-and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
-
-By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
-gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
-was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
-like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
-gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
-dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
-hundred ways.
-
-In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
-at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
-she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
-it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
-discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
-charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
-escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
-
-“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
-question and by her aspect.
-
-“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”
-
-It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
-not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
-all events she'll see that.” And she did.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
-presently.
-
-Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
-
-“I don't hear it.”
-
-“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
-much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
-
-“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
-and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”
-
-“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
-more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
-Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”
-
-“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
-my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
-and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
-broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
-
-“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
-journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
-opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
-
-And indeed she never did.
-
-
-
-
-XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
-tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
-insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
-are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
-France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
-a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
-conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
-humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
-twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
-rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
-the same fruit according to its kind.
-
-Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
-they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
-the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
-toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
-house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
-No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
-of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
-into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
-the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
-form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
- Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
-
-As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
-a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
-are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
-So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
-in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
-hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
-the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
-then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
-curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
-tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
-
-Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
-things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
-a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
-drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
-heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
-they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
-and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
-he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
-drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
-number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
-
-There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
-and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
-question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
-always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
-horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
-their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
-at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
-mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
-no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
-girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
-against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
-shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
-touch his face, his arms being bound.
-
-On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
-the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
-He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
-sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
-
-“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
-
-“That. At the back there.”
-
-“With his hand in the girl's?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
-Down, Evremonde!”
-
-“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
-
-“And why not, citizen?”
-
-“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
-Let him be at peace.”
-
-But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
-Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
-Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
-
-The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
-populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
-end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
-close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
-to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
-public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
-fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
-
-“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
-Defarge!”
-
-“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
-
-“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”
-
-“Louder,” the woman recommends.
-
-Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
-thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
-it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
-lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
-deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
-enough to find her!
-
-“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
-here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
-she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
-her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”
-
-As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
-begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
-robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
-scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
-think and speak, count One.
-
-The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
-the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
-
-The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
-after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
-still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
-crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
-his face and thanks him.
-
-“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
-naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
-able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
-have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
-Heaven.”
-
-“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
-and mind no other object.”
-
-“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
-it go, if they are rapid.”
-
-“They will be rapid. Fear not!”
-
-The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
-if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
-heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
-and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
-together, and to rest in her bosom.
-
-“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
-am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”
-
-“Tell me what it is.”
-
-“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
-love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
-farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
-nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
-tell her! It is better as it is.”
-
-“Yes, yes: better as it is.”
-
-“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
-thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
-much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
-and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
-live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
-
-“What then, my gentle sister?”
-
-“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
-endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
-“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
-where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”
-
-“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”
-
-“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
-moment come?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
-The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
-a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
-him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
-
-“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me shall never die.”
-
-The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
-on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
-forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
-Twenty-Three.
-
- *****
-
-They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
-peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
-sublime and prophetic.
-
-One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
-at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
-write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
-utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
-
-“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
-long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
-the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
-out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
-rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
-their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
-of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
-birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
-
-“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
-prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
-Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
-aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
-healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
-friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
-tranquilly to his reward.
-
-“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
-their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
-for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
-course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
-that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
-than I was in the souls of both.
-
-“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
-winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
-winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
-light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
-fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
-with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
-look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
-tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
-
-“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
-far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: A Tale of Two Cities
- A Story of the French Revolution
-
-Author: Charles Dickens
-
-Release Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]
-Posting Date: November 28, 2009
-Last Updated: March 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Judith Boss
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-A TALE OF TWO CITIES
-
-A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
-
-By Charles Dickens
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
- Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
- Chapter I The Period
- Chapter II The Mail
- Chapter III The Night Shadows
- Chapter IV The Preparation
- Chapter V The Wine-shop
- Chapter VI The Shoemaker
-
-
- Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
- Chapter I Five Years Later
- Chapter II A Sight
- Chapter III A Disappointment
- Chapter IV Congratulatory
- Chapter V The Jackal
- Chapter VI Hundreds of People
- Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town
- Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country
- Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head
- Chapter X Two Promises
- Chapter XI A Companion Picture
- Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy
- Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy
- Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman
- Chapter XV Knitting
- Chapter XVI Still Knitting
- Chapter XVII One Night
- Chapter XVIII Nine Days
- Chapter XIX An Opinion
- Chapter XX A Plea
- Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps
- Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises
- Chapter XXIII Fire Rises
- Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
- Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
- Chapter I In Secret
- Chapter II The Grindstone
- Chapter III The Shadow
- Chapter IV Calm in Storm
- Chapter V The Wood-sawyer
- Chapter VI Triumph
- Chapter VII A Knock at the Door
- Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards
- Chapter IX The Game Made
- Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow
- Chapter XI Dusk
- Chapter XII Darkness
- Chapter XIII Fifty-two
- Chapter XIV The Knitting Done
- Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
-
-
-
-I. The Period
-
-
-It was the best of times,
-it was the worst of times,
-it was the age of wisdom,
-it was the age of foolishness,
-it was the epoch of belief,
-it was the epoch of incredulity,
-it was the season of Light,
-it was the season of Darkness,
-it was the spring of hope,
-it was the winter of despair,
-we had everything before us,
-we had nothing before us,
-we were all going direct to Heaven,
-we were all going direct the other way--
-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
-its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
-evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-
-There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
-throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
-a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
-than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
-that things in general were settled for ever.
-
-It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
-as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
-blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
-heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
-made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
-ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
-messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
-deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
-earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
-from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
-to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
-communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
-brood.
-
-France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
-sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
-hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
-Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
-achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
-torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
-kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
-which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
-yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
-Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
-already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
-boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
-it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
-of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
-sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
-rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
-the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
-the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
-unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
-with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
-that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
-
-In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
-justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
-highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
-families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
-their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
-in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
-challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
-“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
-mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
-then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
-failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
-that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
-and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
-illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
-gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
-fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
-thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
-Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
-for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
-musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
-much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
-and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
-up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
-Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
-hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
-Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
-and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
-sixpence.
-
-All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
-upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
-those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
-fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
-with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
-and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
-creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
-roads that lay before them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Mail
-
-
-It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
-before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
-The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
-Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
-as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
-for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
-and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
-horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
-coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
-to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
-combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
-otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
-are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
-their duty.
-
-With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
-the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
-falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
-them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
-near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
-unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
-hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
-nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
-
-There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
-forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
-none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
-air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
-waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
-everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
-and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
-into it, as if they had made it all.
-
-Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
-side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
-ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
-anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
-hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
-the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
-were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
-the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
-when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
-“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
-non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
-of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
-thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
-he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
-and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
-loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
-deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
-
-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
-the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
-all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
-the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
-taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
-journey.
-
-“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
-top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
-it!--Joe!”
-
-“Halloa!” the guard replied.
-
-“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”
-
-“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
-
-“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
-yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
-
-The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
-made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
-suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
-passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
-stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
-had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
-into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
-getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
-
-The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
-stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
-the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
-
-“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
-box.
-
-“What do you say, Tom?”
-
-They both listened.
-
-“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”
-
-“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
-of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
-name, all of you!”
-
-With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
-the offensive.
-
-The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
-the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
-remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
-in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
-and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
-back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
-his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
-
-The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
-of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
-indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
-the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
-passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
-quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
-the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
-
-The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
-
-“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
-I shall fire!”
-
-The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
-a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”
-
-“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Why do you want to know?”
-
-“I want a passenger, if it is.”
-
-“What passenger?”
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”
-
-Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
-the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
-
-“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
-“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
-your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”
-
-“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
-speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”
-
-(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
-himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)
-
-“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“What is the matter?”
-
-“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”
-
-“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
-road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
-passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
-pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
-
-“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
-guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”
-
-“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
-
-“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
-saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
-at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
-now let's look at you.”
-
-The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
-and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
-stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
-a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
-rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
-the man.
-
-“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
-
-The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
-blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
-answered curtly, “Sir.”
-
-“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
-know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
-to drink. I may read this?”
-
-“If so be as you're quick, sir.”
-
-He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
-read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
-It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
-TO LIFE.”
-
-Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
- said he, at his hoarsest.
-
-“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
-well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”
-
-With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
-all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
-their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
-pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
-the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
-
-The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
-it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
-in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
-having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
-looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
-few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
-furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
-and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
-himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
-and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
-five minutes.
-
-“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.
-
-“Hallo, Joe.”
-
-“Did you hear the message?”
-
-“I did, Joe.”
-
-“What did you make of it, Tom?”
-
-“Nothing at all, Joe.”
-
-“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
-myself.”
-
-Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
-only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
-shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
-holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
-heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
-hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
-hill.
-
-“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
-fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
-glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
-message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
-be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
-Jerry!”
-
-
-
-
-III. The Night Shadows
-
-
-A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
-constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
-solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
-one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
-room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
-heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
-its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
-awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
-turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
-to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
-water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
-of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
-book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
-but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
-eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
-in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
-my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
-consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
-individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
-any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
-a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
-innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
-
-As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
-messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
-first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
-three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
-coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
-been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
-breadth of a county between him and the next.
-
-The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
-ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
-own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
-assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
-no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
-were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
-far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
-a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
-throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
-for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
-poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
-muffled again.
-
-“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
-“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
-suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
-been a drinking!”
-
-His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
-times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
-which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
-over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
-so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
-wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
-have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
-
-While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
-watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
-was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
-night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
-shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
-They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
-
-What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
-its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
-likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
-their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
-
-Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
-passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
-lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
-and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
-jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
-coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
-bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
-stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
-and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
-all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
-the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
-stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
-little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
-them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
-safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
-
-But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
-(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
-always with him, there was another current of impression that never
-ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
-out of a grave.
-
-Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
-was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
-not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
-years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
-and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
-defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
-so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
-and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
-prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
-spectre:
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-“You know that you are recalled to life?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”
-
-The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
-the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
- Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
-“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
-was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”
-
-After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
-and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
-hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
-hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
-passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
-reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
-
-Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
-patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
-by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
-of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
-real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
-sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
-of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
-it again.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
-passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
-securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
-slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
-slid away into the bank and the grave.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
-his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
-passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
-shadows of the night were gone.
-
-He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
-ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
-last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
-in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
-upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
-and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
-
-“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
-Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
-
-
-
-
-IV. The Preparation
-
-
-When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
-the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
-custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
-from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
-traveller upon.
-
-By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
-congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
-roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
-and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
-like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
-of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
-muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
-
-“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
-
-“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
-tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
-sir?”
-
-“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”
-
-“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
-Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
-gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
-Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”
-
-The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
-mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
-head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
-Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
-all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
-drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
-loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
-and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
-brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
-square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
-his breakfast.
-
-The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
-in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
-with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
-that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
-
-Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
-loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
-as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
-evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
-of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
-fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
-wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
-head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
-looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
-His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
-was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
-beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
-face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
-quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
-their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
-reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
-cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
-But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
-principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
-second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
-
-Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
-Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
-and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
-
-“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
-time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
-gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
-their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
-vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”
-
-“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
-sir?”
-
-“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
-from France.”
-
-“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
-time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
-Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
-years ago?”
-
-“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
-the truth.”
-
-“Indeed, sir!”
-
-Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
-table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
-dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
-he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
-immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
-
-When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
-the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
-from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
-ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
-wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
-destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
-brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
-a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
-dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
-fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
-night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
-made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
-sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
-that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
-
-As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
-at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
-again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
-too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
-his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
-digging, digging, in the live red coals.
-
-A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
-harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
-Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
-glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
-ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
-got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
-street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
-
-He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.
-
-In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
-had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
-Tellson's.
-
-“So soon?”
-
-Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
-then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
-immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
-
-The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
-glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
-wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
-It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
-horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
-oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
-were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
-graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
-from them until they were dug out.
-
-The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
-way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
-the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
-candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
-the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
-and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
-his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
-hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
-a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
-it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
-not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
-fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
-eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
-of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
-Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
-high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
-the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
-procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
-offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
-feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
-
-“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
-little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
-
-“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
-date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
-
-“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
-some intelligence--or discovery--”
-
-“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
-
-“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
-long dead--”
-
-Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
-hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
-anybody in their absurd baskets!
-
-“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
-with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
-the purpose.”
-
-“Myself.”
-
-“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”
-
-She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
-pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
-was than she. He made her another bow.
-
-“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
-those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
-France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
-me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
-during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
-gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
-beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
-
-“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
-be more happy to execute it.”
-
-“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
-by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
-business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
-nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
-strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
-
-“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”
-
-After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
-ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”
-
-He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
-forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
-and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
-as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
-shadow.
-
-“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
-
-“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
-an argumentative smile.
-
-Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
-which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
-deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
-she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
-moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
-
-“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
-as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”
-
-“If you please, sir.”
-
-“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
-acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
-if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
-your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
-
-“Story!”
-
-He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
-in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
-our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
-gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”
-
-“Not of Beauvais?”
-
-“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
-Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
-time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”
-
-“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”
-
-“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
-I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
-French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
-In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
-scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
-there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
-sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
-business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
-the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
-machine. To go on--”
-
-“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
-curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
-left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
-it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
-to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
-conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
-the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
-his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
-down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
-
-“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
-just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
-with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
-that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
-Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
-Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
-of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
-Mangle.”
-
-After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
-flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
-unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
-before), and resumed his former attitude.
-
-“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
-regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
-when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”
-
-She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
-
-“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
-the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
-him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
-business. As I was saying--”
-
-Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
-
-“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
-and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
-been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
-trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
-privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
-to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
-privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
-to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
-implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
-him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
-been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”
-
-“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
-
-“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”
-
-“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
-moment.”
-
-“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
-his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
-Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
-if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
-had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
-born--”
-
-“The little child was a daughter, sir.”
-
-“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
-poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
-that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
-inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
-rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
-Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
-
-“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
-
-“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
-business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
-mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
-shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
-much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
-
-Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
-very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
-his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
-communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
-
-“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
-you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
-you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
-her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
-to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
-upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
-heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
-
-As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
-flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
-been already tinged with grey.
-
-“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
-they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
-discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
-
-He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
-forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
-now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
-
-“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
-probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
-Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
-in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
-restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
-
-A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
-low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
-
-“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”
-
-Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
-there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
-You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
-sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
-
-She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
-have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
-
-“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
-wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
-another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
-worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
-know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
-held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
-because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
-anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
-events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
-Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
-the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
-to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
-and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
-which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
-word! Miss Manette!”
-
-Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
-sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
-upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
-branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
-feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
-out loudly for assistance without moving.
-
-A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
-be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
-extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
-wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
-or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
-inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
-poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
-flying back against the nearest wall.
-
-(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
-reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
-
-“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
-“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
-at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
-things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
-water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”
-
-There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
-softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
-gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
-golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
-
-“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
-“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
-to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
-you call _that_ being a Banker?”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
-answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
-sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
-servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
-not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
-regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
-upon her shoulder.
-
-“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
-
-“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
-humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”
-
-“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
-intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
-would have cast my lot in an island?”
-
-This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
-consider it.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wine-shop
-
-
-A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
-accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
-out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
-outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
-
-All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
-idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
-stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
-thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
-had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
-jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
-made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
-women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
-run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
-the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
-handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
-mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
-others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
-there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
-directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
-pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
-fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
-wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
-along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
-if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
-presence.
-
-A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
-and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
-was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
-special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
-of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
-luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
-shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
-together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
-most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
-demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
-had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
-motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
-hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
-starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
-with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
-the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
-gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
-
-The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
-in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
-stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
-wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
-on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
-stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
-Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
-tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
-head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
-upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
-
-The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
-street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
-
-And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
-gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
-heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
-waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
-but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
-terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
-fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
-passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
-in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
-had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
-children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
-grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
-was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
-of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
-lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
-paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
-firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
-chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
-among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
-baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
-bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
-was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
-chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
-farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
-drops of oil.
-
-Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
-street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
-diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
-and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
-that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
-wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
-slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
-compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
-into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
-inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
-were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
-painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
-meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
-croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
-gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
-flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
-and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
-gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
-with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
-broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
-the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
-rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
-the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
-pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
-and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
-manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
-the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
-
-For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
-should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
-long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
-up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
-condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
-France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
-song and feather, took no warning.
-
-The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
-appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
-it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
-for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
-of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
-another.”
-
-There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
-he called to him across the way:
-
-“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
-
-The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
-the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
-often the way with his tribe too.
-
-“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
-keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
-mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
-in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
-to write such words in?”
-
-In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
-perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
-own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
-attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
-hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
-practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
-
-“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
-there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
-dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
-his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
-
-This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
-and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
-bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
-His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
-the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
-crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
-eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
-the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
-resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
-down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
-the man.
-
-Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
-came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
-a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
-heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
-manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
-have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
-in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
-sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
-shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
-earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
-her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
-by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
-coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
-of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
-line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
-shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
-he stepped over the way.
-
-The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
-rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
-a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
-dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
-of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
-elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”
-
-“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
-to himself; “I don't know you.”
-
-But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
-with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
-all the spilt wine swallowed?”
-
-“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
-
-When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
-picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
-and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
-Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
-of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
-
-“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
-
-At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
-using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
-cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
-drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
-
-“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
-always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
-right, Jacques?”
-
-“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
-when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
-slightly rustled in her seat.
-
-“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”
-
-The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
-flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
-giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
-wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
-of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
-upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
-wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
-fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
-close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
-my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
-there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
-
-They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
-Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
-gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
-
-“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
-the door.
-
-Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
-word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
-not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
-beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
-knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
-
-Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
-joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
-company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
-and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
-by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
-gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
-to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
-a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
-transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
-in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
-angry, dangerous man.
-
-“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
- Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
-ascending the stairs.
-
-“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
-
-“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
-same low voice.
-
-“Is he always alone, then?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Of his own desire?”
-
-“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
-found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
-discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
-
-“He is greatly changed?”
-
-“Changed!”
-
-The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
-and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
-forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
-two companions ascended higher and higher.
-
-Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
-parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
-indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
-within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
-the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
-staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
-flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
-hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
-the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
-intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
-insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
-and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
-his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
-Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
-at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
-uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
-to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
-caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
-or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
-promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
-
-At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
-third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
-and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
-was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
-advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
-dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
-here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
-his shoulder, took out a key.
-
-“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
-
-“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
-
-“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
-closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
-frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
-harm--if his door was left open.”
-
-“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
-world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
-are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
-that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
-
-This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
-of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
-under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
-and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
-on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
-
-“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
-moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
-all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
-bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
-That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
-
-They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
-soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
-once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
-the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
-the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
-footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
-themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
-wine-shop.
-
-“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
-Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
-
-The three glided by, and went silently down.
-
-There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
-the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
-Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
-
-“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
-
-“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
-
-“Is that well?”
-
-“_I_ think it is well.”
-
-“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
-
-“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
-sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
-thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
-
-With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
-through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
-twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
-make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
-three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
-it as heavily as he could.
-
-The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
-room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
-than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
-
-He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
-got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
-felt that she was sinking.
-
-“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
-business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
-
-“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
-
-“Of it? What?”
-
-“I mean of him. Of my father.”
-
-Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
-their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
-shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
-down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
-
-Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
-took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
-methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
-could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
-where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
-
-The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
-and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
-roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
-the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
-other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
-door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
-Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
-was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
-alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
-requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
-done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
-towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
-him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
-busy, making shoes.
-
-
-
-
-VI. The Shoemaker
-
-
-“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
-bent low over the shoemaking.
-
-It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
-salutation, as if it were at a distance:
-
-“Good day!”
-
-“You are still hard at work, I see?”
-
-After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
-voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
-had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
-
-The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
-faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
-doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
-the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
-of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
-resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
-beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
-suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
-it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
-wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
-home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
-
-Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
-up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
-perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
-aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
-
-“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
-“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”
-
-The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
-at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
-other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“You can bear a little more light?”
-
-“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
-stress upon the second word.)
-
-The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
-angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
-showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
-labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
-feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
-long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
-thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
-dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
-otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
-His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
-to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
-stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
-from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
-parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
-
-He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
-of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
-pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
-first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
-lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
-first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
-
-“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
-motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
-
-“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”
-
-But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
-
-Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
-he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
-looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
-unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
-it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
-the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
-look and the action had occupied but an instant.
-
-“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Here is a visitor.”
-
-The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
-work.
-
-“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
-he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
-
-“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
-
-There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
-
-“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”
-
-“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
-information?”
-
-“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
-present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
-glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
-
-“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.
-
-Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
-in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
-hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
-so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
-recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
-had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
-endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
-fast-dying man.
-
-“Did you ask me for my name?”
-
-“Assuredly I did.”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
-again, until the silence was again broken.
-
-“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
-at him.
-
-His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
-question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
-on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
-
-“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
-learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”
-
-He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
-hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
-from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
-resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
-subject of last night.
-
-“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
-a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”
-
-As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
-Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
-
-“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
-
-The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
-questioner.
-
-“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
-remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
-banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
-mind, Monsieur Manette?”
-
-As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
-Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
-intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
-through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
-again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
-so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
-had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
-she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
-raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
-shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
-trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
-breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
-repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
-looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
-
-Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
-less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
-and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
-took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
-
-“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.
-
-“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
-unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
-well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”
-
-She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
-which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
-figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
-over his labour.
-
-Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
-beside him, and he bent over his work.
-
-It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
-in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
-which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
-stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
-raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
-but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
-striking at her with the knife, though they had.
-
-He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
-to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
-the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
-
-“What is this?”
-
-With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
-lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
-laid his ruined head there.
-
-“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”
-
-She sighed “No.”
-
-“Who are you?”
-
-Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
-beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
-thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
-laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
-
-Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
-aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
-little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
-he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
-shoemaking.
-
-But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
-shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
-be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
-to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
-attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
-a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
-hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
-
-He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
-the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”
-
-As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
-become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
-light, and looked at her.
-
-“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
-out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
-brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
-leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
-may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
-well.”
-
-He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
-But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
-though slowly.
-
-“How was this?--_Was it you_?”
-
-Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
-frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
-said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
-us, do not speak, do not move!”
-
-“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”
-
-His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
-hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
-shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
-tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
-gloomily shook his head.
-
-“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
-prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
-she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
-was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
-name, my gentle angel?”
-
-Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
-before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
-
-“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
-and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
-cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
-tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
-me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”
-
-His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
-lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
-
-“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
-is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
-sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
-touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
-breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
-I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
-with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
-remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
-weep for it, weep for it!”
-
-She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
-child.
-
-“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
-have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
-peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
-and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
-if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
-and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
-honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
-striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
-my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
-for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
-tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
-God for us, thank God!”
-
-He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
-touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
-had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
-
-When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
-breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
-storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
-called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
-daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
-there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
-head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
-him from the light.
-
-“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
-he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
-arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
-could be taken away--”
-
-“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
-him.”
-
-“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
-than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
-Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”
-
-“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
-methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”
-
-“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
-composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
-now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
-interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
-as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
-you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
-
-Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
-in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
-and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
-for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
-dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
-to do it.
-
-Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
-hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
-deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
-through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
-had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
-meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
-lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
-garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
-assisted him to his feet.
-
-No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
-the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
-whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
-he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
-tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
-answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
-the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
-occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
-in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
-daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
-
-In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
-ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
-and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
-his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
-in both his own.
-
-They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
-Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
-of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
-round at the walls.
-
-“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
-she had repeated it.
-
-“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”
-
-That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
-prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
-evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
-him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
-tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
-no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
-dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
-
-No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
-many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
-silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
-that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
-saw nothing.
-
-The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
-him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
-miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
-Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
-went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
-brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
-against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
-
-Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
-postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
-over-swinging lamps.
-
-Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
-streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
-illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
-gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
-travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
-getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
-monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
-him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
-military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
-in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
-or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
-Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
-grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
-grove of stars.
-
-Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
-this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
-rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
-is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
-All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
-whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
-man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
-lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:
-
-“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”
-
-And the old answer:
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-
-The end of the first book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
-
-
-
-I. Five Years Later
-
-
-Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
-year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
-dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
-moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
-proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
-proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
-in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
-it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
-no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
-convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
-no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
-embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
-Tellson's, thank Heaven--!
-
-Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
-question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
-on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
-suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
-objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
-
-Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
-of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
-a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
-and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
-counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
-wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
-windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
-and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
-heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
-“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
-where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
-hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
-twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
-drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
-they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
-were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
-the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
-polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
-made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
-parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
-papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
-dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
-one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
-by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
-from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
-exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
-Abyssinia or Ashantee.
-
-But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
-with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
-Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
-Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
-was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
-purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
-of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
-Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
-three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
-Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
-might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
-reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
-particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
-after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
-its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
-low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
-disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
-ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
-
-Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
-oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
-man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
-old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
-Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
-be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
-and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
-
-Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
-odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
-sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
-upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
-of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
-in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
-tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
-this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
-occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
-easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
-appellation of Jerry.
-
-The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
-Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
-morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
-always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
-the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
-popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
-
-Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
-but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
-might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
-it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
-already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
-for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
-was spread.
-
-Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
-at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
-and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
-looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
-exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
-
-“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
-
-A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
-corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
-person referred to.
-
-“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
-agin, are you?”
-
-After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
-the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
-odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
-whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
-often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
-
-“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
-mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”
-
-“I was only saying my prayers.”
-
-“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
-yourself down and praying agin me?”
-
-“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”
-
-“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
-your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
-father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
-You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
-herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
-of the mouth of her only child.”
-
-Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
-to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
-board.
-
-“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
-unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
-Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”
-
-“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
-that.”
-
-“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
-much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
-afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
-you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
-child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
-wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
-have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
-countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
-B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
-on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
-another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
-devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
-boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
-then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
-tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
-in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
-laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
-it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
-I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
-been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
-it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
-say now!”
-
-Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
-You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
-and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
-from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
-himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
-In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
-and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
-kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
-woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
-his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
---Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
-again with an undutiful grin.
-
-Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
-breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
-animosity.
-
-“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”
-
-His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
-
-“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
-to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
-ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
-blest off my table. Keep still!”
-
-Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
-which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
-his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
-inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
-aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
-he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
-of the day.
-
-It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
-description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
-a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
-young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
-beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
-with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
-from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
-feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
-Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
-itself,--and was almost as in-looking.
-
-Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
-three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
-Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
-standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
-inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
-boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
-extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
-in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
-eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
-The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
-the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
-youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
-in Fleet-street.
-
-The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
-establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
-
-“Porter wanted!”
-
-“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”
-
-Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
-the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
-had been chewing, and cogitated.
-
-“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
-“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
-rust here!”
-
-
-
-
-II. A Sight
-
-
-“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
-clerks to Jerry the messenger.
-
-“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
-know the Bailey.”
-
-“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
-better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
-in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”
-
-“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
-door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”
-
-“Into the court, sir?”
-
-“Into the court.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
-interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”
-
-“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
-conference.
-
-“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
-Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
-attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
-to remain there until he wants you.”
-
-“Is that all, sir?”
-
-“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
-you are there.”
-
-As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
-Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
-blotting-paper stage, remarked:
-
-“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”
-
-“Treason!”
-
-“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”
-
-“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
-spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”
-
-“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
-him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
-
-“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
-care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
-care of itself. I give you that advice.”
-
-“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
-leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
-
-“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
-gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
-ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”
-
-Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
-deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
-too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
-and went his way.
-
-They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
-not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
-But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
-villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
-into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
-dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
-had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
-his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
-For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
-from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
-a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
-half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
-So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
-was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
-a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
-the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
-softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
-blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
-leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
-under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
-illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
-that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
-consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
-
-Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
-hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
-way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
-his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
-at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
-former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
-doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
-criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
-
-After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
-very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
-court.
-
-“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
-to.
-
-“Nothing yet.”
-
-“What's coming on?”
-
-“The Treason case.”
-
-“The quartering one, eh?”
-
-“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
-be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
-face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
-and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
-That's the sentence.”
-
-“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.
-
-“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
-that.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
-saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
-sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
-gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
-before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
-in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
-then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
-court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
-with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
-to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
-
-“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
-
-“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.
-
-“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
-
-“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.
-
-The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
-central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
-went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
-
-Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
-ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
-at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
-pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
-stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
-laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
-themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
-upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
-Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
-of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
-whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
-the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
-that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
-in an impure mist and rain.
-
-The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
-five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
-a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
-dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
-dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
-of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
-itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
-situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
-soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
-bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
-
-The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
-was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
-horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
-details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
-fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
-was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
-and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
-spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
-powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
-
-Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
-an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
-he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
-forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
-occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
-King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
-so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
-our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
-said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
-evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
-said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
-to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
-becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
-huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
-the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
-there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
-that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
-
-The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
-beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
-the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
-attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
-and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
-composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
-it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
-vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
-
-Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
-upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
-it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
-in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
-glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
-day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
-for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
-that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
-of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
-face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
-
-It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
-which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
-in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
-immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
-aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
-
-The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
-twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
-remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
-and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
-but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
-looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
-it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
-handsome man, not past the prime of life.
-
-His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
-him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
-dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
-been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
-that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
-noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
-had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
-“Who are they?”
-
-Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
-manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
-absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
-him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
-from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
-to Jerry:
-
-“Witnesses.”
-
-“For which side?”
-
-“Against.”
-
-“Against what side?”
-
-“The prisoner's.”
-
-The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
-leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
-in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
-axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
-
-
-
-
-III. A Disappointment
-
-
-Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
-them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
-claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
-public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
-even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
-prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
-repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
-he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
-traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
-wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
-That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
-was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
-prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
-Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
-That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
-attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
-friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
-infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
-in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
-were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
-benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
-they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
-as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
-knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
-whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
-they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
-especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
-That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
-for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
-communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
-a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
-and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
-hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
-in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
-brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
-Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
-on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
-witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
-produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
-his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
-sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
-such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
-proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
-same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
-showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
-would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
-in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
-very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
-That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
-were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
-positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
-they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
-pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
-their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
-of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
-there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
-pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
-Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
-everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
-of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
-good as dead and gone.
-
-When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
-a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
-anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
-unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
-
-Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
-patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
-exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
-it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
-of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
-wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
-Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
-opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
-
-Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
-What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
-precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
-Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
-distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
-prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
-prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
-times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
-been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
-Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
-downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
-dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
-committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
-Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
-more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
-Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
-very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
-No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
-about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
-Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
-pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
-no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
-patriotism? None whatever.
-
-The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
-great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
-simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
-packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
-He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
-charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
-the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
-his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
-prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
-the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
-had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
-at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
-Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
-information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
-he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
-only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
-that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
-coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
-curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
-was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
-
-The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry.
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
-seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
-Dover by the mail?”
-
-“It did.”
-
-“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
-
-“Two.”
-
-“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
-
-“They did.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”
-
-“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
-
-“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
-
-“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
-reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
-those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
-render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”
-
-“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
-myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
-air.”
-
-“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“I certainly have seen that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
-certain knowledge, before?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
-prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
-voyage with me.”
-
-“At what hour did he come on board?”
-
-“At a little after midnight.”
-
-“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
-at that untimely hour?”
-
-“He happened to be the only one.”
-
-“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
-came on board in the dead of the night?”
-
-“He was.”
-
-“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
-
-“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
-
-“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
-
-“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
-I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
-
-“Miss Manette!”
-
-The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
-turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
-kept her hand drawn through his arm.
-
-“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
-
-To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
-far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
-Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
-the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
-to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
-before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
-to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
-rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
-
-“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Where?”
-
-“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
-occasion.”
-
-“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
-
-“O! most unhappily, I am!”
-
-The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
-of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
-to you, and make no remark upon them.”
-
-“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
-passage across the Channel?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Recall it.”
-
-In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
-gentleman came on board--”
-
-“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
-
-“Yes, my Lord.”
-
-“Then say the prisoner.”
-
-“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
-her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
-and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
-afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
-deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
-care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
-The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
-shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
-had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
-set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
-great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
-felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
-
-“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“How many were with him?”
-
-“Two French gentlemen.”
-
-“Had they conferred together?”
-
-“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
-necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”
-
-“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”
-
-“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
-papers.”
-
-“Like these in shape and size?”
-
-“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
-near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
-light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
-spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
-they looked at papers.”
-
-“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”
-
-“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
-of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
-father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
-harm to-day.”
-
-Buzzing from the blue-flies.
-
-“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
-you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
-give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
-he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”
-
-“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
-difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
-therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
-had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
-take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
-time to come.”
-
-“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”
-
-“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
-that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
-England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
-Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
-Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
-laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
-
-Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
-a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
-unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
-anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
-she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
-the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
-expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
-of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
-when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
-heresy about George Washington.
-
-Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
-necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
-father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
-
-“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
-
-“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
-three years and a half ago.”
-
-“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
-speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
-
-“Sir, I can do neither.”
-
-“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
-either?”
-
-He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
-
-“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
-trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”
-
-He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”
-
-“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
-
-“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
-time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
-time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
-here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
-my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
-familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
-
-Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
-together.
-
-A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
-to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
-in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
-got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
-not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
-to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
-was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
-in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
-waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
-this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
-on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
-been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
-little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
-this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
-attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
-
-“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
-
-The witness was quite sure.
-
-“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
-
-Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
-
-“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
-to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
-prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”
-
-Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
-if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
-not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
-into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
-his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
-much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
-counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
-friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
-would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
-happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
-this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
-confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
-this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
-useless lumber.
-
-Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
-fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
-Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
-of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
-traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
-scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
-rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
-and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
-swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
-affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
-those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
-consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
-even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
-and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
-had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
-gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
-and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
-reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
-impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
-How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
-attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
-and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
-how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
-character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
-State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
-(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
-not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
-
-Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
-attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
-Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
-Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
-prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
-the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
-decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
-
-And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
-
-Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
-changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
-While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
-whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
-anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
-grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
-and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
-in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
-sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
-on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
-hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
-day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
-a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
-undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
-when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
-lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
-hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
-observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
-that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
-to get any, do he?”
-
-Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
-appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
-her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
-“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
-Don't you see she will fall!”
-
-There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
-sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
-him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
-strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
-brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
-ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
-moment, spoke, through their foreman.
-
-They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
-Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
-but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
-and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
-the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
-jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
-refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
-down.
-
-Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
-now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
-could easily get near him.
-
-“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
-way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
-behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
-are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
-before I can.”
-
-Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
-acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
-at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
-
-“How is the young lady?”
-
-“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
-feels the better for being out of court.”
-
-“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
-like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
-in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
-The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
-eyes, ears, and spikes.
-
-“Mr. Darnay!”
-
-The prisoner came forward directly.
-
-“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
-will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”
-
-“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
-for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
-
-“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
-
-Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
-half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
-
-“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
-
-“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
-Mr. Darnay?”
-
-“The worst.”
-
-“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
-withdrawing is in your favour.”
-
-Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
-more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
-in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
-them.
-
-An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
-passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
-The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
-refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
-of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
-with them.
-
-“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
-there.
-
-“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
-
-Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
-it?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
-
-“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
-Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”
-
-He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
-until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
-with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
-swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
-search of other carrion.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Congratulatory
-
-
-From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
-human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
-Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
-for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
-Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
-death.
-
-It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
-in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
-shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
-twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
-had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
-to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
-reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
-lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
-from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
-itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
-unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
-Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
-hundred miles away.
-
-Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
-his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
-misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
-the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
-influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
-recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
-and slight, and she believed them over.
-
-Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
-to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
-more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
-loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
-way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
-conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
-
-He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
-late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
-out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
-Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
-less likely to succeed on that account.”
-
-“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
- said his late client, taking his hand.
-
-“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
-another man's, I believe.”
-
-It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
-said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
-object of squeezing himself back again.
-
-“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
-and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
-
-“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
-now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
-him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
-this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
-Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”
-
-“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
-do yet. Speak for yourself.”
-
-“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
-Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
- He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
-
-His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
-Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
-not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
-thoughts had wandered away.
-
-“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
-
-He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
-
-“Shall we go home, my father?”
-
-With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”
-
-The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
-impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
-released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
-passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
-and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
-gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
-Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
-the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
-departed in it.
-
-Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
-to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
-interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
-against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
-out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
-stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
-
-“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”
-
-Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
-proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
-better for it in appearance.
-
-“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
-business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
-appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
-sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
-have to think of the House more than ourselves.”
-
-“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
-nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
-I dare say.”
-
-“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
-know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
-much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
-business.”
-
-“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“It is a pity you have not, sir.”
-
-“I think so, too.”
-
-“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”
-
-“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
-“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
-if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
-Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
-for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
-I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
-life.--Chair there!”
-
-Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
-Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
-who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
-then, and turned to Darnay:
-
-“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
-be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
-these street stones?”
-
-“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
-again.”
-
-“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
-advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”
-
-“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”
-
-“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
-numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
-some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”
-
-Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
-Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
-shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
-his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
-opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
-before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
-
-“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
-Darnay?”
-
-“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
-mended as to feel that.”
-
-“It must be an immense satisfaction!”
-
-He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
-one.
-
-“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
-It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
-are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
-not much alike in any particular, you and I.”
-
-Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
-this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
-at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
-
-“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
-health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”
-
-“What health? What toast?”
-
-“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
-swear it's there.”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
-flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
-pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
- he said, filling his new goblet.
-
-A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
-feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
-sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”
-
-Again Darnay answered not a word.
-
-“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
-that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”
-
-The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
-disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
-strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
-for it.
-
-“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
-“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
-it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”
-
-“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”
-
-“Do you think I particularly like you?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
-not asked myself the question.”
-
-“But ask yourself the question now.”
-
-“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”
-
-“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
-opinion of your understanding.”
-
-“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
-nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
-parting without ill-blood on either side.”
-
-Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
-reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
-bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
-ten.”
-
-The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
-Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
-of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
-I am drunk?”
-
-“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
-
-“Since I must say so, I know it.”
-
-“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
-care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
-
-“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
-
-“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
-however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”
-
-When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
-glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
-
-“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
-should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
-in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
-made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
-what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
-places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
-he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
-have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
-
-He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
-minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
-table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Jackal
-
-
-Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
-the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
-statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
-in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
-perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
-The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
-learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
-Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
-practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
-drier parts of the legal race.
-
-A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
-begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
-he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
-specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
-visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
-florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
-the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
-among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
-
-It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
-man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
-faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
-among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
-But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
-business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
-pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
-Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
-
-Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
-ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
-might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
-anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
-at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
-they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
-rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
-to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
-among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
-would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
-rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
-wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“_What's_ the matter?”
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”
-
-“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
-
-“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
-
-After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
-dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
-he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
-and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
-Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
-
-The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
-home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
-and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
-had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
-may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
-Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
-Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
-
-“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.
-
-“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”
-
-They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
-where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
-the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
-it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
-
-“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”
-
-“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
-seeing him dine--it's all one!”
-
-“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
-identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”
-
-“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
-been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”
-
-Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
-
-“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”
-
-Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
-room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
-or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
-out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
-at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”
-
-“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
-gaily, as he looked among his papers.
-
-“How much?”
-
-“Only two sets of them.”
-
-“Give me the worst first.”
-
-“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
-
-The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
-drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
-proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
-his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
-a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
-his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
-lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
-so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
-stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
-more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
-matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
-him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
-jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
-no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
-gravity.
-
-At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
-proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
-made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
-assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
-hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
-invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
-to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
-this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
-disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
-
-“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
-Stryver.
-
-The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
-again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
-
-“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
-to-day. Every question told.”
-
-“I always am sound; am I not?”
-
-“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
-it and smooth it again.”
-
-With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
-
-“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
-his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
-old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
-now in despondency!”
-
-“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
-luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
-
-He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
-him, looking at the fire.
-
-“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
-as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
-was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
-Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
-is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
-at me.”
-
-“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
-good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”
-
-“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
-do?”
-
-“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
-your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
-do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”
-
-“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”
-
-“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
-Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
-
-“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
- pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
-mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
-picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
-didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
-nowhere.”
-
-“And whose fault was that?”
-
-“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
-driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
-that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
-thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
-Turn me in some other direction before I go.”
-
-“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
-his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”
-
-Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
-
-“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
-enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”
-
-“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”
-
-“_She_ pretty?”
-
-“Is she not?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”
-
-“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
-of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”
-
-“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
-and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
-thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
-and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”
-
-“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
-yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
-I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
-I'll get to bed.”
-
-When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
-him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
-windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
-dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
-lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
-before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
-the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
-
-Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
-on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
-wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
-perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
-from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
-fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
-A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
-houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
-pillow was wet with wasted tears.
-
-Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
-good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
-incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
-on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
-
-
-
-
-VI. Hundreds of People
-
-
-The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
-far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
-waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
-it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
-on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
-business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
-quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
-
-On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
-the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
-Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
-secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
-them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
-generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
-his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
-Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
-them.
-
-A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
-found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
-the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
-had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
-north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
-grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
-consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
-instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
-settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
-the peaches ripened in their season.
-
-The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
-of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
-though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
-glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
-place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
-
-There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
-there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
-several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
-audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
-a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
-rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
-to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
-who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
-he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
-visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
-to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
-a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
-workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
-about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
-thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
-required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
-the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
-from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
-
-Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
-its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
-His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
-ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
-he earned as much as he wanted.
-
-These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
-notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
-on the fine Sunday afternoon.
-
-“Doctor Manette at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Lucie at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Pross at home?”
-
-Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
-anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
-fact.
-
-“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”
-
-Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
-birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
-make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
-agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
-by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
-that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
-rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
-the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
-delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
-themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
-stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
-with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
-time, whether he approved?
-
-There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
-communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
-all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
-he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
-the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
-and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
-the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
-changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
-Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
-bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
-dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
-
-“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
-that reminder of his sufferings about him!”
-
-“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
-
-It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
-acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
-had since improved.
-
-“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.
-
-“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
-
-“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
-express that she bore him no malice.
-
-“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
-are you?”
-
-“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
-Ladybird.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
-fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
-stature) was shortness.
-
-“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
-
-“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
-very much put out.”
-
-“May I ask the cause?”
-
-“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
-come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”
-
-“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.
-
-It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
-time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
-she exaggerated it.
-
-“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
-
-“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
-paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
-your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
-for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
- said Miss Pross.
-
-Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
-using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
-fit anything.
-
-“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
-are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”
-
-“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”
-
-“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”
-
-“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
-enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
-that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
-him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
-circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
-and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
-him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”
-
-Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
-this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
-unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
-admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
-it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
-never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
-their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
-is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
-rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
-respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
-mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
-Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
-better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
-
-“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
-Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
-mistake in life.”
-
-Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
-established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
-who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
-speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
-no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
-(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
-matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
-
-“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
-business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
-sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
-in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”
-
-“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
-refer to it within himself.”
-
-“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”
-
-“I do,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
-short with:
-
-“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”
-
-“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
-sometimes?”
-
-“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
-bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
-theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
-the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
-oppressor?”
-
-“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”
-
-“And that is--?”
-
-“That she thinks he has.”
-
-“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
-mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”
-
-“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
-
-Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
-no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
-Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
-he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
-though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
-intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
-attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
-Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
-zealous interest.”
-
-“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
-me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
-of the whole subject.”
-
-“Afraid?”
-
-“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
-remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
-knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
-feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
-subject pleasant, I should think.”
-
-It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
-he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
-Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
-always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
-it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”
-
-“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
-string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
-In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
-the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
-up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
-know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
-his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
-and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
-a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
-best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
-together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
-brought him to himself.”
-
-Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
-perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
-in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
-her possessing such a thing.
-
-The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
-had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
-seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
-set it going.
-
-“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
-“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”
-
-It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
-peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
-looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
-they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
-the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
-heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
-at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
-was ready at the street door to receive them.
-
-Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
-off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
-with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
-folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
-as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
-had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
-sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
-her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
-playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
-chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
-them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
-eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
-have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
-beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
-stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
-Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
-for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
-
-Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
-the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
-always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
-quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
-contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
-better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
-kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
-impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
-impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
-of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
-who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
-or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
-a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
-pleased.
-
-On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
-persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
-regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
-which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
-Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
-to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
-
-It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
-wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
-there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
-they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
-the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
-time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
-plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
-and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
-whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
-
-Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
-presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
-was only One.
-
-Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
-suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
-retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
-disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
-jerks.”
-
-The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
-resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
-they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
-his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
-likeness.
-
-He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
-vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
-plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
-which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
-the Tower?”
-
-“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
-it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”
-
-“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
-though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
-character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
-curious thing when I was there.”
-
-“What was that?” Lucie asked.
-
-“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
-had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
-its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
-prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
-in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
-execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
-some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
-At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
-examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
-legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
-were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
-that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
-floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
-earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
-the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
-or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
-had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”
-
-“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”
-
-He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
-his look quite terrified them all.
-
-“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
-made me start. We had better go in.”
-
-He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
-drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
-said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
-of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
-either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
-towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
-when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
-
-He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
-his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
-steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
-was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
-that the rain had startled him.
-
-Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
-her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
-made only Two.
-
-The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
-windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
-done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
-heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
-leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
-the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
-ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
-
-“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
-Manette. “It comes slowly.”
-
-“It comes surely,” said Carton.
-
-They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
-dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
-
-There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
-get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
-resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
-footstep was there.
-
-“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
-listened for a while.
-
-“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
-sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
-a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
-solemn--”
-
-“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”
-
-“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
-originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
-sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
-the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
-by-and-bye into our lives.”
-
-“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
- Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
-
-The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
-rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
-as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
-coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
-the distant streets, and not one within sight.
-
-“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
-are we to divide them among us?”
-
-“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
-asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
-then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
-into my life, and my father's.”
-
-“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
-stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
-and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
-had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
-
-“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
-come, fast, fierce, and furious!”
-
-It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
-for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
-lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
-interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
-midnight.
-
-The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
-Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
-forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
-of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
-of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
-usually performed a good two hours earlier.
-
-“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
-bring the dead out of their graves.”
-
-“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
-would do that,” answered Jerry.
-
-“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
-Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”
-
-Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
-bearing down upon them, too.
-
-
-
-
-VII. Monseigneur in Town
-
-
-Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
-fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
-his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
-the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
-was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
-things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
-rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
-much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
-strong men besides the Cook.
-
-Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
-Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
-pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
-conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
-the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
-the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
-a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
-watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
-dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
-place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
-his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
-men; he must have died of two.
-
-Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
-and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
-a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
-impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
-more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
-state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
-for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
-favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
-days of the merry Stuart who sold it.
-
-Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
-was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
-business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
-his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
-particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
-was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
-by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
-thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”
-
-Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
-his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
-affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
-public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
-must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
-private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
-generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
-Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
-time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
-wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
-poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
-a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
-rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
-mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
-down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
-
-A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
-stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
-waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
-forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
-relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
-among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
-
-For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
-every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
-achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
-reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
-so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
-equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
-have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
-been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
-destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
-civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
-worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
-all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
-pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
-Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
-anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
-score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
-yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
-passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
-no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
-for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
-patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
-discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
-State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
-root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
-they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
-Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
-card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
-Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
-wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
-the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
-since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
-subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
-exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
-notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
-among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
-of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
-the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
-appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
-bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
-towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
-known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
-and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
-supped as at twenty.
-
-The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
-upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
-people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
-things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
-them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
-sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
-whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
-spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
-Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
-three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
-jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
-Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
-out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
-the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
-by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
-discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
-became manifest.
-
-But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
-Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
-ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
-correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
-delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
-swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
-surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
-of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
-languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
-and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
-fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
-his devouring hunger far away.
-
-Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
-things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
-was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
-Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
-of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
-descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
-required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
-and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
-rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
-Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
-him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
-Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
-of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
-hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
-see the very stars out!
-
-Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
-chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
-open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
-fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
-body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
-been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
-troubled it.
-
-Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
-happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
-passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
-Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
-course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
-sprites, and was seen no more.
-
-The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
-and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
-but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
-and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
-way out.
-
-“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
-and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”
-
-With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
-dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
-
-He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
-with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
-feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
-beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
-of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
-change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
-colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
-by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
-treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
-attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
-line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
-too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
-handsome face, and a remarkable one.
-
-Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
-drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
-stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
-in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
-to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
-often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
-charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
-check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
-sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
-that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
-custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
-barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
-time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
-left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
-
-With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
-consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
-dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
-before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
-its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
-wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
-number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
-
-But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
-stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
-behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
-and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
-
-“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
-
-A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
-the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
-down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
-
-“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
-a child.”
-
-“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”
-
-“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”
-
-The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
-into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
-got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
-Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
-
-“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
-their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”
-
-The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
-nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
-and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
-people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
-remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
-and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
-over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
-
-He took out his purse.
-
-“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
-of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
-the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
-him that.”
-
-He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
-craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
-tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”
-
-He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
-made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
-sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
-stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
-were as silent, however, as the men.
-
-“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
-Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
-live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
-as happily?”
-
-“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
-they call you?”
-
-“They call me Defarge.”
-
-“Of what trade?”
-
-“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”
-
-“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
-throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
-there; are they right?”
-
-Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
-Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
-air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
-paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
-disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
-
-“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”
-
-He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
-moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
-the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
-figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
-
-“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
-except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
-willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
-threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
-should be crushed under the wheels.”
-
-So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
-what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
-a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
-But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
-Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
-contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
-leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”
-
-He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
-succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
-Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
-whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
-had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
-on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
-spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
-which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
-bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
-while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
-of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
-had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
-of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
-into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
-time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
-in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
-things ran their course.
-
-
-
-
-VIII. Monseigneur in the Country
-
-
-A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
-Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
-and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
-inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
-tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
-disposition to give up, and wither away.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
-lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
-a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
-no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
-occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
-sun.
-
-The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
-gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
-die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”
-
-In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
-heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
-hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
-quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
-left when the drag was taken off.
-
-But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
-at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
-church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
-fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
-as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
-coming near home.
-
-The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
-tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
-fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
-its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
-shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
-fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
-the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
-were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
-for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
-paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
-the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.
-
-Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
-their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
-terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
-or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
-
-Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
-whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
-if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
-his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
-fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
-He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
-sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
-meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
-truth through the best part of a hundred years.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
-drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
-Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
-drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
-of the roads joined the group.
-
-“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.
-
-The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
-to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
-
-“I passed you on the road?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”
-
-“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true.”
-
-“What did you look at, so fixedly?”
-
-“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”
-
-He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
-carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
-
-“What man, pig? And why look there?”
-
-“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”
-
-“Who?” demanded the traveller.
-
-“Monseigneur, the man.”
-
-“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
-know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”
-
-“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
-all the days of my life, I never saw him.”
-
-“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”
-
-“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
-His head hanging over--like this!”
-
-He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
-face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
-himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
-
-“What was he like?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
-white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”
-
-The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
-eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
-the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
-conscience.
-
-“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
-vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
-and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
-Gabelle!”
-
-Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
-united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
-examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
-official manner.
-
-“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.
-
-“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
-to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”
-
-“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”
-
-“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”
-
-The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
-particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
-half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
-presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
-
-“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
-a person plunges into the river.”
-
-“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”
-
-The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
-wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
-to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
-they might not have been so fortunate.
-
-The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
-rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
-it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
-sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
-gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
-points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
-courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
-
-At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
-with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
-figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
-studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
-dreadfully spare and thin.
-
-To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
-growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
-turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
-presented herself at the carriage-door.
-
-“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”
-
-With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
-Monseigneur looked out.
-
-“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”
-
-“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”
-
-“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
-cannot pay something?”
-
-“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”
-
-“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”
-
-“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
-grass.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”
-
-“Again, well?”
-
-She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
-grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
-with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
-caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
-feel the appealing touch.
-
-“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
-want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”
-
-“Again, well? Can I feed them?”
-
-“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
-that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
-over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
-forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
-shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
-are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
-Monseigneur!”
-
-The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
-a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
-behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
-diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
-his chateau.
-
-The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
-the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
-at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
-of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
-man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
-could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
-in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
-stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
-been extinguished.
-
-The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
-was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
-for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
-of his chateau was opened to him.
-
-“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”
-
-“Monseigneur, not yet.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Gorgon's Head
-
-
-It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
-with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
-staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
-business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
-stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
-all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
-finished, two centuries ago.
-
-Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
-to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
-of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
-flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
-door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
-in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
-save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
-those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
-heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
-
-The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
-hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
-grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
-peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
-was angry.
-
-Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
-Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
-the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
-to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
-others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
-the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
-befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
-The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
-break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
-but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
-pages in the history of France.
-
-A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
-room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
-lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
-closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
-black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
-
-“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
-said he was not arrived.”
-
-Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
-
-“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
-table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
-
-In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
-sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
-he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
-lips, when he put it down.
-
-“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
-horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
-
-“Monseigneur? That?”
-
-“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”
-
-It was done.
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
-here.”
-
-The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
-the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
-for instructions.
-
-“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”
-
-That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
-half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
-hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
-front of the chateau.
-
-“Ask who is arrived.”
-
-It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
-Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
-rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
-He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
-
-He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
-there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
-He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
-
-Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
-hands.
-
-“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
-seat at table.
-
-“Yesterday. And you?”
-
-“I come direct.”
-
-“From London?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.
-
-“On the contrary; I come direct.”
-
-“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
-intending the journey.”
-
-“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
-answer--“various business.”
-
-“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.
-
-So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
-When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
-looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
-fine mask, opened a conversation.
-
-“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
-took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
-a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
-sustained me.”
-
-“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”
-
-“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
-the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”
-
-The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
-lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
-graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
-breeding that it was not reassuring.
-
-“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
-expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
-circumstances that surrounded me.”
-
-“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.
-
-“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
-deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
-and would know no scruple as to means.”
-
-“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
-two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”
-
-“I recall it.”
-
-“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
-
-His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
-instrument.
-
-“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
-bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
-France here.”
-
-“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
-“Dare I ask you to explain?”
-
-“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
-been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
-have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”
-
-“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
-of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
-Pray excuse me!”
-
-“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
-yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.
-
-“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
-politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
-consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
-your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
-yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
-at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
-aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
-might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
-and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
-(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
-things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
-of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
-dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
-one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
-some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
-lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
-assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
-to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
-bad!”
-
-The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
-as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
-containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
-
-“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
-time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
-more detested than any name in France.”
-
-“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
-involuntary homage of the low.”
-
-“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
-look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
-deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”
-
-“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
-merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
-Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
-crossed his legs.
-
-But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
-thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
-him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
-and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
-indifference.
-
-“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
-and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
-obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
-out the sky.”
-
-That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
-chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
-they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
-him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
-the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
-he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
-way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
-was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
-
-“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
-of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
-terminate our conference for the night?”
-
-“A moment more.”
-
-“An hour, if you please.”
-
-“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
-of wrong.”
-
-“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
-and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
-
-“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
-to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
-a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
-our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
-when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
-inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”
-
-“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.
-
-“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
-frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
-execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
-look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
-redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”
-
-“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
-breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
-will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”
-
-Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
-cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
-quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
-touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
-a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
-body, and said,
-
-“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
-lived.”
-
-When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
-box in his pocket.
-
-“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
-bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
-Monsieur Charles, I see.”
-
-“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
-renounce them.”
-
-“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
-is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”
-
-“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
-to me from you, to-morrow--”
-
-“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”
-
-“--or twenty years hence--”
-
-“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
-supposition.”
-
-“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
-relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
-
-“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
-under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
-mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
-and suffering.”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
-
-“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
-qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
-weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
-it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
-another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
-on it, and on all this land.”
-
-“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
-philosophy, graciously intend to live?”
-
-“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
-their backs, may have to do some day--work.”
-
-“In England, for example?”
-
-“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
-family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”
-
-The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
-lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
-Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
-valet.
-
-“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
-prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
-with a smile.
-
-“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
-be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”
-
-“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
-know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“With a daughter?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
-in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
-which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
-time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
-straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
-looked handsomely diabolic.
-
-“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
-commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
-outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
-looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
-
-“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
-again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
-chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
-added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
-valet to his own bedroom.
-
-The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
-loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
-night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
-noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
-enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
-periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
-coming on.
-
-He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
-scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
-toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
-prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
-the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
-chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
-the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
-tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”
-
-“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”
-
-So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
-gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
-with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
-
-The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
-for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
-rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
-very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
-the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
-hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
-
-For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
-stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
-dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
-The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
-were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
-have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
-taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
-the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
-the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
-freed.
-
-The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
-at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
-minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
-hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
-and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
-
-Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
-trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
-of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
-crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
-weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
-the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
-At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
-mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
-
-Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
-windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
-shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
-lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
-fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
-and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
-out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
-and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
-prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
-foot.
-
-The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
-surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
-reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
-now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
-round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
-doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
-pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
-
-All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
-return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
-chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
-figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
-everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
-
-What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
-at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
-much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
-peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
-to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
-no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
-down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
-fountain.
-
-All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
-in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
-emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
-in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
-on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
-trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
-the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
-all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
-on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
-highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
-into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
-himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
-and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
-a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
-(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
-the German ballad of Leonora?
-
-It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
-
-The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
-the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
-through about two hundred years.
-
-It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
-mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
-heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
-was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
-
-“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”
-
-
-
-
-X. Two Promises
-
-
-More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
-Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
-language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
-would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
-young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
-living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
-its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
-sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
-at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
-to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
-dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
-tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
-profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
-work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
-known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
-circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
-So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
-
-In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
-to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
-would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
-did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
-
-A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
-read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
-contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
-and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
-London.
-
-Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
-when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
-invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
-woman.
-
-He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
-heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
-he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
-confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
-him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
-at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
-long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
-mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
-much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
-
-That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
-summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
-he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
-of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
-day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
-
-He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
-which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
-their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
-very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
-of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
-sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
-exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
-frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
-
-He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
-ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
-sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
-
-“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
-return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
-both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”
-
-“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
-a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
-Manette--”
-
-“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
-delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
-soon be home.”
-
-“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
-being from home, to beg to speak to you.”
-
-There was a blank silence.
-
-“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
-and speak on.”
-
-He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
-easy.
-
-“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
- so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
-on which I am about to touch may not--”
-
-He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
-had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
-
-“Is Lucie the topic?”
-
-“She is.”
-
-“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
-to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”
-
-“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
-Manette!” he said deferentially.
-
-There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
-
-“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”
-
-His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
-originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
-Darnay hesitated.
-
-“Shall I go on, sir?”
-
-Another blank.
-
-“Yes, go on.”
-
-“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
-I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
-the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
-laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
-disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
-her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”
-
-The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
-ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
-and cried:
-
-“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”
-
-His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
-Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
-extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
-so received it, and remained silent.
-
-“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
-moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”
-
-He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
-raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
-overshadowed his face:
-
-“Have you spoken to Lucie?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Nor written?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
-to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
-you.”
-
-He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
-
-“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
-Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
-you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
-belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
-can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
-child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
-with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
-is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
-itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
-now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
-years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
-early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
-you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
-hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
-in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
-you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
-neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
-own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
-loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
-have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”
-
-Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
-little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
-
-“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
-with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
-long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
-now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
-your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
-Heaven is my witness that I love her!”
-
-“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
-before now. I believe it.”
-
-“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
-struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
-that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
-put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
-word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
-should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
-a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
-heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
-now touch this honoured hand.”
-
-He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
-
-“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
-you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
-you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
-in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
-life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
-with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
-come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”
-
-His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
-moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
-his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
-conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
-occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
-
-“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
-you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
-you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”
-
-“None. As yet, none.”
-
-“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
-ascertain that, with my knowledge?”
-
-“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
-might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”
-
-“Do you seek any guidance from me?”
-
-“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
-in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”
-
-“Do you seek any promise from me?”
-
-“I do seek that.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
-understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
-innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
-could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”
-
-“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”
-
-“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
-favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
-Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
-word, to save my life.”
-
-“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
-well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
-delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
-respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
-heart.”
-
-“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
-supplied the rest.
-
-“Is sought by any other suitor?”
-
-“It is what I meant to say.”
-
-Her father considered a little before he answered:
-
-“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
-occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”
-
-“Or both,” said Darnay.
-
-“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
-a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”
-
-“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
-part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
-bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
-may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
-me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
-condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
-require, I will observe immediately.”
-
-“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
-your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
-believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
-between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
-that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
-If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”
-
-The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
-the Doctor spoke:
-
-“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
-new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
-thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
-sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
-than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”
-
-So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
-his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
-hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
-
-“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
-“What was it you said to me?”
-
-He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
-condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
-
-“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
-part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
-not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
-why I am in England.”
-
-“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.
-
-“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
-secret from you.”
-
-“Stop!”
-
-For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
-another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
-
-“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
-should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
-promise?”
-
-“Willingly.
-
-“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
-should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”
-
-It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
-darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
-Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
-reading-chair empty.
-
-“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”
-
-Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
-bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
-his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
-blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”
-
-Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
-his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
-her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
-together for a long time.
-
-She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
-slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
-work, were all as usual.
-
-
-
-
-XI. A Companion Picture
-
-
-“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
-jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”
-
-Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
-and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
-a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
-of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
-arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
-November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
-bring grist to the mill again.
-
-Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
-application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
-through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
-the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
-his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
-intervals for the last six hours.
-
-“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
-his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
-his back.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
-surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
-shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”
-
-“_Do_ you?”
-
-“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”
-
-“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“Do I know her?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
-frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
-me to dinner.”
-
-“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
-posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
-because you are such an insensible dog.”
-
-“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
-sensitive and poetical spirit--”
-
-“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
-any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
-I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”
-
-“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”
-
-“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”
-
-“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.
-
-“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
-inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
-be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
-to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”
-
-“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
-way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
-as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
-moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
-hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
-Sydney!”
-
-“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
-be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
-to me.”
-
-“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
-rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
-to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
-fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”
-
-Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
-
-“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
-myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
-Why do I do it?”
-
-“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.
-
-“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
-get on.”
-
-“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
- answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
-to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”
-
-He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
-
-“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
-delivered in no very soothing tone.
-
-“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
-“Who is the lady?”
-
-“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
-Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
-for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
-half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
-make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
-me in slighting terms.”
-
-“I did?”
-
-“Certainly; and in these chambers.”
-
-Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
-drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
-
-“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
-lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
-delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
-little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
-You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
-think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
-a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
-of mine, who had no ear for music.”
-
-Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
-looking at his friend.
-
-“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
-fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
-please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
-will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
-and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
-but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
-astonished?”
-
-“You approve?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”
-
-“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
-you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
-be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
-ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
-enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
-feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
-inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
-that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
-credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
-say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
-know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
-you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
-you really ought to think about a nurse.”
-
-The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
-big as he was, and four times as offensive.
-
-“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
-I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
-you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
-you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
-understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
-respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
-or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
-kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”
-
-“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.
-
-
-
-
-XII. The Fellow of Delicacy
-
-
-Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
-fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
-to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
-debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
-well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
-at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
-before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
-and Hilary.
-
-As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
-saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
-grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
-plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
-plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
-the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
-consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
-case could be.
-
-Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
-proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
-Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
-himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
-
-Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
-while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
-Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
-on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
-along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
-seen how safe and strong he was.
-
-His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
-knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
-Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
-of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
-in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
-cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
-Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
-bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
-under the clouds were a sum.
-
-“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”
-
-It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
-place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
-in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
-squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
-the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
-the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
-
-The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
-recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
-you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
-of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
-hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
-self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
-
-“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
-business character.
-
-“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
-have come for a private word.”
-
-“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
-to the House afar off.
-
-“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
-desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
-be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
-in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
-visitor dubiously.
-
-“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
-What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
-appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
-my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
-Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
-manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
-“you know there really is so much too much of you!”
-
-“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
-opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
-Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”
-
-Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
-end, and bit the feather of a pen.
-
-“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”
-
-“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
-eligible, you are eligible.”
-
-“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.
-
-“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“And advancing?”
-
-“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
-able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”
-
-“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
-perceptibly crestfallen.
-
-“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
-
-“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”
-
-“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
-shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
-have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”
-
-“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
-having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”
-
-“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
-Stryver.
-
-“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
-a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
-complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
-head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
-been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
-
-“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
-when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
-causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
-lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
-young lady. The young lady goes before all.”
-
-“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
-elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
-present in question is a mincing Fool?”
-
-“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
-reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
-from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
-taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
-not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
-this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
-mind.”
-
-The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
-blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
-Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
-no better state now it was his turn.
-
-“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
-be no mistake about it.”
-
-Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
-hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
-toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
-
-“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
-to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
-bar?”
-
-“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”
-
-“Yes, I do.”
-
-“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”
-
-“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
-this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”
-
-“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
-not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
-business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
-Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
-of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
-spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
-may not be right?”
-
-“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
-parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
-in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
-new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”
-
-“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
-understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
-will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
-gentleman breathing.”
-
-“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.
-
-“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
-painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
-Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
-painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
-know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
-the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
-in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
-little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
-it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
-soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
-with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
-best spared. What do you say?”
-
-“How long would you keep me in town?”
-
-“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
-evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”
-
-“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
-hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
-in to-night. Good morning.”
-
-Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
-concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
-bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
-of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
-always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
-believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
-the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
-
-The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
-gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
-moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
-swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
-forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
-out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”
-
-It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
-great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
-Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”
-
-Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
-Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
-purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
-the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
-altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.
-
-“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
-bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
-Soho.”
-
-“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
-thinking of!”
-
-“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
-conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
-advice.”
-
-“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
-am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
-account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
-us say no more about it.”
-
-“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
-final way; “no matter, no matter.”
-
-“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.
-
-“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
-sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
-not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
-done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
-repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
-aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
-a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
-glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
-for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
-have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
-proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
-certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
-that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
-giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
-will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
-I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
-And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
-and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
-you were right, it never would have done.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
-Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
-showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
-“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
-thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”
-
-Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
-was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy
-
-
-If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
-house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
-and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
-cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
-which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
-pierced by the light within him.
-
-And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
-and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
-he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
-transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
-figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
-of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
-in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
-brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
-into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
-him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
-it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
-neighbourhood.
-
-On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
-that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
-delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
-City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
-for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
-those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
-animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
-they took him to the Doctor's door.
-
-He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
-never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
-embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
-his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
-a change in it.
-
-“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
-is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”
-
-“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
-live no better life?”
-
-“God knows it is a shame!”
-
-“Then why not change it?”
-
-Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
-there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
-answered:
-
-“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
-sink lower, and be worse.”
-
-He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
-table trembled in the silence that followed.
-
-She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
-be so, without looking at her, and said:
-
-“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
-what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”
-
-“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
-it would make me very glad!”
-
-“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”
-
-He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
-
-“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
-one who died young. All my life might have been.”
-
-“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
-sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”
-
-“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
-mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
-it!”
-
-She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
-of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
-been holden.
-
-“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
-love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
-poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
-conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
-bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
-disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
-no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
-be.”
-
-“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
-you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
-confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
-little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
-no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
-
-He shook his head.
-
-“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
-little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
-you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
-been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
-home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
-died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
-I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
-old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
-have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
-sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
-a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
-but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
-
-“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
-
-“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
-undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
-weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
-heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
-its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
-service, idly burning away.”
-
-“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
-than you were before you knew me--”
-
-“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
-anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
-
-“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
-attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
-make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
-good, with you, at all?”
-
-“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
-here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
-the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
-and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
-deplore and pity.”
-
-“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
-all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
-and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
-me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
-was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
-alone, and will be shared by no one?”
-
-“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”
-
-“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
-yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”
-
-“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”
-
-He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
-
-“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
-conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
-again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
-the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
-shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
-to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
-in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”
-
-He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
-sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
-down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
-stood looking back at her.
-
-“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
-hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
-but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
-wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
-shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
-what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
-to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”
-
-“I will, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
-you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
-between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
-it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
-you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
-there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
-embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
-me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
-thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
-ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
-and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
-grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
-happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
-beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
-a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”
-
-He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Honest Tradesman
-
-
-To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
-Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
-variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
-upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
-not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
-westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
-both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
-the sun goes down!
-
-With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
-like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
-watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
-running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
-since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
-women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
-Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
-companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
-to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
-have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
-the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
-purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
-
-Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
-the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
-but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
-
-It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
-few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
-unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
-Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
-unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
-attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
-funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
-funeral, which engendered uproar.
-
-“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
-buryin'.”
-
-“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.
-
-The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
-significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
-his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
-
-“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
-to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
-_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
-let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
-hear?”
-
-“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
-
-“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
-harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
-
-His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
-round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
-there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
-considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
-appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
-surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
-incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
- with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
-
-Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
-always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
-Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
-excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
-
-“What is it, brother? What's it about?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
-
-He asked another man. “Who is it?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
-nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
-greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
-
-At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
-against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
-funeral of one Roger Cly.
-
-“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
-Spi--i--ies!”
-
-“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
-assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”
-
-“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
-out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”
-
-The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
-that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
-suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
-so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
-doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
-for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
-that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
-shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
-other symbolical tears.
-
-These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
-enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
-crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
-They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
-out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
-its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
-much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
-the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
-while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
-exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
-was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
-the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
-coach.
-
-The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
-the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
-remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
-members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
-The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
-hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
-close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
-by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
-popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
-ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
-bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
-that part of the procession in which he walked.
-
-Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
-caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
-at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
-was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
-in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
-accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
-highly to its own satisfaction.
-
-The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
-providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
-genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
-passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
-was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
-the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
-they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
-window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
-and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
-been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
-the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
-coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
-the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
-progress of a mob.
-
-Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
-behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
-The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
-neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
-maturely considering the spot.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
-“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
-was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”
-
-Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
-himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
-station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
-his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
-amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
-man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
-his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
-
-Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
-job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
-usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
-
-“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
-entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
-shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
-for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
-
-The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
-
-“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
-angry apprehension.
-
-“I am saying nothing.”
-
-“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
-You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
-yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
-but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
-ironical dissatisfaction.
-
-“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
-bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
-oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
-
-“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
-another bite.
-
-“Yes, I am.”
-
-“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
-
-“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
-where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”
-
-“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”
-
-“Never you mind.”
-
-“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
-
-“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
-gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
-going out, till you've been long abed.”
-
-He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
-most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
-conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
-to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
-conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
-on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
-he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
-person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
-honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
-professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
-
-“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
-honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
-of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
-tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
-on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
-customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”
-
-Then he began grumbling again:
-
-“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
-know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
-flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
-your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
-and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”
-
-This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
-perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
-all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
-function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
-
-Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
-was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
-obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
-solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
-o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
-took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
-forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
-fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
-in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
-extinguished the light, and went out.
-
-Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
-bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
-followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
-court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
-his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
-door stood ajar all night.
-
-Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
-father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
-walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
-honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
-gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
-the two trudged on together.
-
-Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
-winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
-lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
-that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
-second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
-himself into two.
-
-The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
-under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
-brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
-wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
-the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
-Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
-Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
-defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
-He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
-third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
-there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
-and knees.
-
-It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
-holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
-in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
-and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
-that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
-tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
-creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
-fish.
-
-They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
-appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
-Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
-striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
-with his hair as stiff as his father's.
-
-But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
-only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
-were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
-the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
-screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
-strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
-earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
-it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
-wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
-made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
-
-He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
-it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
-to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
-was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
-upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
-and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
-shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
-was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
-roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
-like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
-too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
-to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
-and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
-incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
-got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
-it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
-stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
-his breast when he fell asleep.
-
-From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
-daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
-family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
-inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
-ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
-bed.
-
-“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
-
-“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.
-
-“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
-and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
-you?”
-
-“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.
-
-“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
-honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
-husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”
-
-“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”
-
-“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
-honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
-when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
-wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
-woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
-no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
-of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”
-
-The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
-the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
-at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
-his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
-down too, and fell asleep again.
-
-There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
-Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
-by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
-he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
-and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
-ostensible calling.
-
-Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
-along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
-from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
-solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
-and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
-improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
-that fine morning.
-
-“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
-at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
-Resurrection-Man?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
-should I know?”
-
-“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.
-
-“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
-hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”
-
-“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.
-
-“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
-branch of Scientific goods.”
-
-“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.
-
-“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
-growed up!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
-“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
-your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
-there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
-for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
-to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
-himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
-yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”
-
-
-
-
-XV. Knitting
-
-
-There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
-Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
-through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
-measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
-of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
-he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
-influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
-vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
-Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
-the dregs of it.
-
-This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
-early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
-on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
-brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
-slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
-not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
-were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
-have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
-and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
-looks.
-
-Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
-was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
-threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
-only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
-wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
-and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
-humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
-
-A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
-observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
-at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
-gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
-towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
-of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
-with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
-a long way off.
-
-Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
-high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
-his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
-mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
-the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
-of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
-flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
-followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
-the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
-
-“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
-an answering chorus of “Good day!”
-
-“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.
-
-Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
-their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
-
-“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
-travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
-Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
-He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
-drink, my wife!”
-
-A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
-mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
-and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
-bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
-Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
-
-Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
-than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
-rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
-He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
-Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
-
-“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.
-
-“Yes, thank you.”
-
-“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
-occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”
-
-Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
-courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
-staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
-sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
-
-No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
-gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
-man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
-him through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
-
-“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
-encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
-Speak, Jacques Five!”
-
-The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
-it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”
-
-“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
-commencement.”
-
-“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
-running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
-chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
-going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
-hanging by the chain--like this.”
-
-Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
-he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
-the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
-during a whole year.
-
-Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
-
-“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
-
-Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
-
-“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
-finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
-'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”
-
-“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.
-
-“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
-confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
-offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
-standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
-My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”
-
-“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
-interrupted. “Go on!”
-
-“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
-is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”
-
-“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
-he is unluckily found. Go on!”
-
-“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
-go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
-village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
-coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
-with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”
-
-With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
-elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
-
-“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
-and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
-spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
-see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
-that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
-going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
-their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
-road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
-Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
-with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
-to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
-be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
-on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”
-
-He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
-vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
-
-“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
-show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
-our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
-village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
-follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
-shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
-consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”
-
-He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
-butt-ends of muskets.
-
-“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
-laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
-but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
-the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
-and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
-darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”
-
-He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
-snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
-opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”
-
-“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
-voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
-village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
-locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
-except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
-my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
-my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
-iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
-hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
-dead man.”
-
-Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
-of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
-countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
-authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
-and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
-his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
-intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
-over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
-standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
-light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
-him.
-
-“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.
-
-“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
-at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
-distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
-of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
-faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
-the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
-whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
-executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
-that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
-that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
-It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”
-
-“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
-“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
-yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
-sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
-hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
-his hand.”
-
-“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
-his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
-strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
-food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
-and struck him blows. You hear?”
-
-“I hear, messieurs.”
-
-“Go on then,” said Defarge.
-
-“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
-countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
-the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
-that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
-father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
-parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
-with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
-which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
-poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
-that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
-says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
-the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
-I am not a scholar.”
-
-“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
-and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
-all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
-nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
-the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
-attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
-when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
-done--why, how old are you?”
-
-“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
-
-“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
-it.”
-
-“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
-on.”
-
-“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
-even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
-night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
-the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
-Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
-the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
-water.”
-
-The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
-and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
-
-“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
-the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
-have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
-of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
-a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
-laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
-from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
-fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
-there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”
-
-They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
-on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
-spectacle.
-
-“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
-water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
-I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
-bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
-across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
-messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”
-
-The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
-three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
-
-“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
-and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
-warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
-walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
-you see me!”
-
-After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
-and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
-door?”
-
-“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
-top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
-
-The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
-the garret.
-
-“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”
-
-“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.
-
-“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.
-
-“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”
-
-The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
-gnawing another finger.
-
-“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
-can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
-safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
-be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”
-
-“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
-undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
-a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
-own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
-Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
-to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
-crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”
-
-There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
-hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
-very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”
-
-“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
-easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
-with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
-on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
-Court; let him see them on Sunday.”
-
-“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
-wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”
-
-“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
-to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
-him to bring it down one day.”
-
-Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
-dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
-pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
-asleep.
-
-Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
-in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
-dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
-new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
-unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
-his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
-he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
-contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
-might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
-into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
-murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
-with it until the play was played out.
-
-Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
-(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
-and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
-madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
-additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
-afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
-see the carriage of the King and Queen.
-
-“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.
-
-“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”
-
-“What do you make, madame?”
-
-“Many things.”
-
-“For instance--”
-
-“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”
-
-The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
-of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
-and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
-fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
-and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
-shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
-ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
-and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
-sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
-intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
-Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
-ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
-terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
-more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
-with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
-hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
-and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
-from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
-pieces.
-
-“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
-patron; “you are a good boy!”
-
-The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
-having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
-
-“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
-these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
-insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”
-
-“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”
-
-“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
-stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
-in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
-tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
-deceive them too much.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
-confirmation.
-
-“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
-it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”
-
-“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
-pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
-pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly yes, madame.”
-
-“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
-set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
-you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”
-
-“It is true, madame.”
-
-“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
-a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
-“now, go home!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI. Still Knitting
-
-
-Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
-bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
-darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
-the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
-the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
-the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
-for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
-scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
-stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
-terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
-the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
-village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
-when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
-faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
-up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
-look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
-stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
-was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
-everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
-scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
-crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
-skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
-started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
-who could find a living there.
-
-Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
-stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
-of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
-night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
-world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
-star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
-the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
-the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
-vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
-
-The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
-in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
-journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
-guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
-examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
-of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
-with, and affectionately embraced.
-
-When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
-and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
-picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
-streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
-
-“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
-
-“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
-commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
-can say, but he knows of one.”
-
-“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
-business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
-man?”
-
-“He is English.”
-
-“So much the better. His name?”
-
-“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
-been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
-correctness.
-
-“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”
-
-“John.”
-
-“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
-“Good. His appearance; is it known?”
-
-“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
-complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
-thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
-sinister.”
-
-“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
-registered to-morrow.”
-
-They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
-and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
-the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
-stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
-her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
-dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
-of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
-handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
-night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
-up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
-condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
-walked up and down through life.
-
-The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
-neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
-by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
-it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
-whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
-
-“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
-money. “There are only the usual odours.”
-
-“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.
-
-“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
-never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
-him. “Oh, the men, the men!”
-
-“But my dear!” began Defarge.
-
-“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
-faint of heart to-night, my dear!”
-
-“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
-breast, “it _is_ a long time.”
-
-“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
-Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”
-
-“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
-Defarge.
-
-“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
-the lightning? Tell me.”
-
-Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
-too.
-
-“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
-swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
-earthquake?”
-
-“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.
-
-“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
-before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
-seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”
-
-She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
-
-“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
-“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
-coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
-is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
-that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
-the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
-more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
-you.”
-
-“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
-a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
-attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
-it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
-it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”
-
-“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
-were another enemy strangled.
-
-“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
-“We shall not see the triumph.”
-
-“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
-strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
-my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
-certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
-would--”
-
-Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
-
-“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
-cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”
-
-“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
-and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
-When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
-time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”
-
-Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
-little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
-out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
-manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
-
-Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
-wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
-now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
-usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
-drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
-and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
-perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
-dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
-out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
-themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
-the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
-thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
-
-A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
-felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
-rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
-
-It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
-customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
-wine-shop.
-
-“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.
-
-“Good day, monsieur.”
-
-She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
-“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
-hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
-thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
-expression! Good day, one and all!”
-
-“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
-mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
-
-Madame complied with a polite air.
-
-“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
-
-It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
-Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
-however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
-visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
-of observing the place in general.
-
-“You knit with great skill, madame.”
-
-“I am accustomed to it.”
-
-“A pretty pattern too!”
-
-“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
-
-“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
-
-“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
-fingers moved nimbly.
-
-“Not for use?”
-
-“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
-madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
-coquetry, “I'll use it!”
-
-It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
-decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
-men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
-catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
-looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
-Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
-one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
-but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
-poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
-unimpeachable.
-
-“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
-and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
-'BARSAD' before you go.”
-
-“You have a husband, madame?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“Children?”
-
-“No children.”
-
-“Business seems bad?”
-
-“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
-
-“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”
-
-“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
-extra something into his name that boded him no good.
-
-“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
-Of course.”
-
-“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
-enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
-think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
-it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
-embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”
-
-The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
-not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
-stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
-Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
-
-“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
-Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
-
-“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
-for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
-price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”
-
-“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
-that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
-susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
-is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
-fellow? Between ourselves.”
-
-“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.
-
-“Is there not?”
-
-“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.
-
-As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
-him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
-Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
-
-“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
-confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
-
-“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
-“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”
-
-“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
-day!”
-
-“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.
-
-“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
-you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
-and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”
-
-“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
-of it.”
-
-Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
-hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
-person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
-have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
-attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
-water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
-out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
-it.
-
-“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
- observed Defarge.
-
-“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
-in its miserable inhabitants.”
-
-“Hah!” muttered Defarge.
-
-“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
- pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
-associations with your name.”
-
-“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.
-
-“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
-had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
-informed of the circumstances?”
-
-“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
-to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
-warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
-
-“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
-from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
-monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
-Tellson and Company--over to England.”
-
-“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.
-
-“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
-Manette and his daughter, in England.”
-
-“Yes?” said Defarge.
-
-“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.
-
-“No,” said Defarge.
-
-“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
-song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
-arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
-they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
-no correspondence.”
-
-“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”
-
-“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
-ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”
-
-“Oh! You know I am English.”
-
-“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
-suppose the man is.”
-
-He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
-of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
-end, he added:
-
-“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
-one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
-poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
-going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
-was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
-Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
-Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”
-
-Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
-effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
-as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
-troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
-spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
-
-Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
-worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
-paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
-in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
-pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
-after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
-husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
-come back.
-
-“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
-as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
-said of Ma'amselle Manette?”
-
-“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
-is probably false. But it may be true.”
-
-“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.
-
-“If it is?” repeated his wife.
-
-“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
-sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”
-
-“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
-“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
-to end him. That is all I know.”
-
-“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
-Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
-“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
-husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
-the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”
-
-“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
-madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
-for their merits; that is enough.”
-
-She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
-took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
-Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
-decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
-disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
-shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
-
-In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
-himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
-to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
-Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
-to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
-her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
-knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
-mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
-jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
-the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
-
-But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
-Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
-among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
-behind.
-
-Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
-great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
-grand woman!”
-
-Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
-the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
-the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
-darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
-pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
-thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
-wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
-Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
-knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
-a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
-counting dropping heads.
-
-
-
-
-XVII. One Night
-
-
-Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
-Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
-under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
-radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
-seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
-
-Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
-for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
-
-“You are happy, my dear father?”
-
-“Quite, my child.”
-
-They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
-was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
-in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
-both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
-time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
-
-“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
-love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
-for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
-if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
-the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
-self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”
-
-Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
-
-In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
-upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
-the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
-its going.
-
-“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
-quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
-ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
-own heart, do you feel quite certain?”
-
-Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
-scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
-added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
-seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
-was--without it.”
-
-“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”
-
-“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
-it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
-fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
-wasted--”
-
-She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
-the word.
-
-“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
-natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
-comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
-how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”
-
-“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
-with you.”
-
-He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
-without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
-
-“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
-Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
-should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
-cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”
-
-It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
-refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
-sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
-afterwards.
-
-“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
-“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
-light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
-of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
-my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
-that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
-could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
-with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
-manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
-and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”
-
-The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
-deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
-the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
-cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
-
-“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
-child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
-been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
-was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
-imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
-was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
-to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
-will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
-
-She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
-
-“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
-me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
-cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
-to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
-the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
-blank.”
-
-“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
-never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
-
-“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
-brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
-the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”
-
-“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”
-
-“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
-have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
-like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
-foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
-leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
-image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
-her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
-But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”
-
-“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”
-
-“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
-sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
-and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
-that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
-have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
-I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
-perplexed distinctions.”
-
-His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
-cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
-
-“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
-coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
-life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
-was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
-cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”
-
-“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
-that was I.”
-
-“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
-they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
-a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
-up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
-imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
-But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
-blessed her.”
-
-“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
-me as fervently to-morrow?”
-
-“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
-for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
-happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
-happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”
-
-He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
-Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
-house.
-
-There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
-be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
-change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
-by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
-apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
-
-Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
-three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
-was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
-little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
-
-So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
-But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
-downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
-beforehand.
-
-All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
-asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
-hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
-shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
-then, leaned over him, and looked at him.
-
-Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
-covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
-mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
-resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
-beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
-
-She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
-she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
-sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
-more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
-of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
-in praying for him.
-
-
-
-
-XVIII. Nine Days
-
-
-The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
-closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
-Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
-Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
-reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
-but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
-have been the bridegroom.
-
-“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
-and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
-pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
-you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
-what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
-on my friend Mr. Charles!”
-
-“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
-therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”
-
-“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”
-
-“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
-on occasion.)
-
-“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
-a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
-anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
-Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
-I couldn't see it.”
-
-“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
-had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
-invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
-speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
-might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”
-
-“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.
-
-“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
-gentleman of that name.
-
-“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
-
-“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
-seems probable, too.”
-
-“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
-were put in your cradle.”
-
-“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
-with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
-pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
-her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
-I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
-opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
-your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
-own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
-fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
-shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
-the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
-your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
-him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
-Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
-old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
-own.”
-
-For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
-well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
-golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
-delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
-
-The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
-Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
-went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
-But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
-shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
-old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
-wind.
-
-He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
-which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
-another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
-eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
-
-Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
-group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
-glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
-dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
-breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
-mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
-mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
-door at parting.
-
-It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
-cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
-enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”
-
-And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
-gone.
-
-The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
-preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
-and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
-the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
-change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
-there, had struck him a poisoned blow.
-
-He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
-expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
-the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
-manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
-room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
-wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
-
-“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
-think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
-I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
-presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
-there, and all will be well.”
-
-It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
-Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
-old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
-into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
-
-“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”
-
-Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
-lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
-He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”
-
-Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
-Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
-when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
-down, and he was very busy.
-
-“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”
-
-The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
-were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.
-
-He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
-throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
-haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
-hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
-shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
-him, and asked what it was.
-
-“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
-ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”
-
-“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”
-
-He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
-his work.
-
-“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
-occupation. Think, dear friend!”
-
-Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
-a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
-a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
-words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
-the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
-he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
-seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
-trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.
-
-Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
-all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
-the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
-conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
-precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
-few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
-on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
-called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
-two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
-addressed to her by the same post.
-
-These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
-the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
-another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
-thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
-
-In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
-being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
-attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
-therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
-first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
-room.
-
-He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
-to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
-attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
-before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
-fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
-window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
-natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
-
-Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
-that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
-after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
-When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
-and said to him:
-
-“Will you go out?”
-
-He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
-looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
-
-“Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
-Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
-with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
-some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
-business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
-
-Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
-at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
-time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
-fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
-bench and to work.
-
-On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
-and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
-returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
-that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
-to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
-at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
-present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
-amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
-enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
-friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
-appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
-him.
-
-When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
-
-“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”
-
-As before, he repeated, “Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
-from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
-meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
-sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
-slipped away to his bench.
-
-The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
-heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
-The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
-seven days, eight days, nine days.
-
-With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
-heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
-well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
-observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
-was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
-his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
-the dusk of the ninth evening.
-
-
-
-
-XIX. An Opinion
-
-
-Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
-tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
-into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
-night.
-
-He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
-done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
-Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
-and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
-at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
-Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
-studious and attentive.
-
-Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
-giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
-not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
-friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
-as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
-which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
-
-It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
-answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
-corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
-How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
-Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
-Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?
-
-Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
-had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
-resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
-He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
-breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
-had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
-Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
-the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
-
-Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
-out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
-toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
-white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
-usual way, and came to breakfast.
-
-So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
-delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
-advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
-place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
-the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
-counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
-he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
-he sought. And that aid was his own.
-
-Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
-Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
-
-“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
-very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
-very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
-so.”
-
-Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
-Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
-at his hands more than once.
-
-“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
-arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
-give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
-for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”
-
-“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
-shock--?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”
-
-Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
-
-“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
-of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
-the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
-shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
-long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
-are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
-which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
-himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
-the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
-be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
-great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
-stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
-there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”
-
-The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”
-
-“Nine days and nights.”
-
-“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
-resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”
-
-“That is the fact.”
-
-“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
-collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
-originally?”
-
-“Once.”
-
-“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
-respects--as he was then?”
-
-“I think in all respects.”
-
-“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”
-
-“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
-It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”
-
-The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
-very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
-the two spoke for a little while.
-
-“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
-considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
-and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
-possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
-intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
-I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
-relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
-be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
-about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
-more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
-if I knew how.
-
-“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
-knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
-able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
-Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
-and teach me how to be a little more useful.”
-
-Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
-Mr. Lorry did not press him.
-
-“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
-“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
-unforeseen by its subject.”
-
-“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
-
-“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
-
-“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
-mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
-himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”
-
-“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
-upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
-him?”
-
-“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
-believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”
-
-“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
-after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
-attack?”
-
-“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
-extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
-was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
-distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
-there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
-would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
-particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
-effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”
-
-“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
-with natural hesitation.
-
-The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
-answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
-
-“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
-
-“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
-great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
-should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
-something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
-and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
-the worst was over.”
-
-“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
-
-“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
-be instructed. I may go on?”
-
-“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
-hand.
-
-“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
-he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
-knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
-he do too much?”
-
-“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
-singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
-part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
-things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
-direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”
-
-“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
-
-“I think I am quite sure of it.”
-
-“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”
-
-“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
-violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
-
-“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
-that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
-disorder?”
-
-“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
-firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
-association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
-extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
-happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
-such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
-believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”
-
-He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
-would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
-confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
-endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
-confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
-really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
-be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
-conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
-last nine days, he knew that he must face it.
-
-“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
-so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
-will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
-case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
-time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
-found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
-him?”
-
-The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
-nervously on the ground.
-
-“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
-his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”
-
-Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
-ground.
-
-“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
-understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
-shook his head, and stopped.
-
-“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
-“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
-of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
-occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
-his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
-the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
-practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
-torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
-quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
-himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
-of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
-find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
-fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
-
-He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
-face.
-
-“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
-who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
-bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
-the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
-with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
-forge?”
-
-There was another silence.
-
-“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
-companion.”
-
-“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
-in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
-sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
-Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
-sake, my dear Manette!”
-
-Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
-
-“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
-it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
-let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
-passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
-three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
-day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
-had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
-explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
-she had no suspicions.
-
-On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
-his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
-carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
-guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
-Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
-which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
-burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
-purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
-shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
-and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
-while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
-traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
-crime.
-
-
-
-
-XX. A Plea
-
-
-When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
-offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
-many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
-in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
-about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
-
-He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
-speaking to him when no one overheard.
-
-“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
-
-“We are already friends, I hope.”
-
-“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
-mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
-friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
-
-Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
-good-fellowship, what he did mean?
-
-“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
-in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
-remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
-usual?”
-
-“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
-you had been drinking.”
-
-“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
-always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
-when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
-preach.”
-
-“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
-to me.”
-
-“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
-away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
-you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
-wish you would forget it.”
-
-“I forgot it long ago.”
-
-“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
-me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
-and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
-
-“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
-for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
-surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
-faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
-Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
-remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”
-
-“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
-you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
-don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
-say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”
-
-“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
-quarrel with _your_ light answer.”
-
-“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
-I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
-incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
-ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”
-
-“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
-
-“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
-any good, and never will.”
-
-“I don't know that you 'never will.'”
-
-“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
-to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
-reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
-permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
-be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
-resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
-furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
-doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
-should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
-dare say, to know that I had it.”
-
-“Will you try?”
-
-“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
-indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”
-
-“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
-
-They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
-afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
-
-When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
-Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
-this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
-problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
-bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
-him as he showed himself.
-
-He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
-wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
-her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
-marked.
-
-“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
-
-“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
-and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
-to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”
-
-“What is it, my Lucie?”
-
-“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
-ask it?”
-
-“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
-
-What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
-cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
-
-“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
-respect than you expressed for him to-night.”
-
-“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
-
-“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”
-
-“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”
-
-“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
-lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
-he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
-wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”
-
-“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
-astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
-of him.”
-
-“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
-scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
-now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
-even magnanimous things.”
-
-She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
-that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
-
-“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
-head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
-we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”
-
-The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
-Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”
-
-He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
-her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
-could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
-of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
-that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
-have parted from his lips for the first time--
-
-“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI. Echoing Footsteps
-
-
-A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
-the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
-her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
-companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
-the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
-years.
-
-At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
-when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
-dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
-afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
-Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
-doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
-her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
-footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
-be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
-eyes, and broke like waves.
-
-That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
-advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
-her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
-mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
-the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
-children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
-her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
-joy to her.
-
-Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
-weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
-their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
-echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
-step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
-Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
-unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
-plane-tree in the garden!
-
-Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
-harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
-pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
-smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
-leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
-tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
-departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
-forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
-
-Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
-echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
-of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
-mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
-murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
-the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
-dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
-the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
-
-The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
-half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
-uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
-done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
-regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
-all true echoes for ages and ages.
-
-No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
-blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
-but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
-delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
-such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
-was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
-and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
-him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”
-
-Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
-forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
-his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
-in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
-life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
-stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
-it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
-state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
-rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
-property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
-but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
-
-These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
-offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
-sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
-Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
-bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
-rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
-Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
-training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
-pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
-declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
-Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
-diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
-to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
-parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
-latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
-it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
-originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
-off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
-
-These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
-amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
-daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
-child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
-and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
-Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
-with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
-waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
-in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
-more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
-many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
-to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
-the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
-as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
-have too much to do?”
-
-But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
-in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
-little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
-as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
-
-On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
-Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
-her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
-all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
-lightning from the same place.
-
-“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
-I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
-business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
-to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
-run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
-to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
-among some of them for sending it to England.”
-
-“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--
-
-“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
-there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
-getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
-without due occasion.”
-
-“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”
-
-“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
-himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
-am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
-Manette?”
-
-“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
-
-“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
-which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
-reason. You are not going out, I hope?”
-
-“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
-Doctor.
-
-“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
-pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
-see.”
-
-“Of course, it has been kept for you.”
-
-“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”
-
-“And sleeping soundly.”
-
-“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
-otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
-all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
-come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
-the echoes about which you have your theory.”
-
-“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”
-
-“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
-are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”
-
-Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
-life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
-footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
-the dark London window.
-
-Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
-heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
-heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
-roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
-struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
-all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
-weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
-
-Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
-agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
-heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
-have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
-powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
-weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
-could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
-force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
-heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
-Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
-with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
-
-As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
-circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
-had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
-already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
-thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
-another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
-
-“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
-One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
-patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”
-
-“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
-knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
-in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
-and a cruel knife.
-
-“Where do you go, my wife?”
-
-“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
-of women, by-and-bye.”
-
-“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
-friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”
-
-With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
-into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
-depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
-beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
-began.
-
-Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
-towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
-the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
-a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
-wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
-
-Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
-cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
-all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
-Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
-the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
-wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
-
-“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
-the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
-cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
-revenge.
-
-Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
-drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
-displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
-weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
-at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
-execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
-furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
-single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
-towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
-by the service of Four fierce hours.
-
-A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
-perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
-the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
-wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
-walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
-
-So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
-draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
-struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
-outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
-made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
-Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
-inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
-exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
-furious dumb-show.
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-“The Records!”
-
-“The secret cells!”
-
-“The instruments of torture!”
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
-the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
-eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
-billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
-threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
-undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
-these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
-hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
-wall.
-
-“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
-there is no one there.”
-
-“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
-Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“The meaning, monsieur?”
-
-“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
-shall strike you dead?”
-
-“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
-
-“Monsieur, it is a cell.”
-
-“Show it me!”
-
-“Pass this way, then.”
-
-Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
-by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
-held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
-been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
-as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
-noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
-its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
-outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
-occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
-air like spray.
-
-Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
-hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
-and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
-waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
-linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
-there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
-but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
-tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
-and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
-to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
-come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
-
-The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
-the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
-in:
-
-“One hundred and five, North Tower!”
-
-There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
-with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
-stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
-across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
-on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
-the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
-
-“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
-Defarge to the turnkey.
-
-The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
-
-“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”
-
-“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
-
-“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
-with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
-wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
-a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
-me!”
-
-He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
-exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
-table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
-
-“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
-among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
- throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
-light higher, you!”
-
-With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
-peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
-and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
-and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
-in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
-into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
-cautious touch.
-
-“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”
-
-“Nothing.”
-
-“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
-them, you!”
-
-The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
-again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
-retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
-of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
-more.
-
-They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
-Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
-upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
-Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
-judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
-blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
-unavenged.
-
-In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
-encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
-decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
-woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
-“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
-remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
-the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
-close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
-be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
-long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
-when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
-upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.
-
-The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
-of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
-Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
-iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
-governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
-where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
-the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
-means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
-swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
-
-The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
-of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
-were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
-voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
-until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
-
-But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
-in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
-fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
-more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
-released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
-overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
-Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
-Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
-drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
-faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
-faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
-lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
-IT!”
-
-Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
-accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
-and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
-hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
-Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
-hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
-and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
-and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
-at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
-stained red.
-
-
-
-
-XXII. The Sea Still Rises
-
-
-Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
-his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
-the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
-Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
-Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
-Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
-themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
-portentously elastic swing with them.
-
-Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
-contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
-knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
-of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
-the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
-hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
-but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
-destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
-before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
-The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
-they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
-the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
-last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.
-
-Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
-to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
-sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
-grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
-already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
-
-“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”
-
-As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
-Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
-murmur came rushing along.
-
-“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”
-
-Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
-around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
- Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
-mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
-sprung to their feet.
-
-“Say then, my husband. What is it?”
-
-“News from the other world!”
-
-“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”
-
-“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
-that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”
-
-“Everybody!” from all throats.
-
-“The news is of him. He is among us!”
-
-“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”
-
-“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
-to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
-found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
-seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
-said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”
-
-Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
-never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
-could have heard the answering cry.
-
-A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
-steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
-was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
-
-“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”
-
-Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
-in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
-The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
-her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
-house, rousing the women.
-
-The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
-from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
-the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
-such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
-children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
-famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
-another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
-Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
-Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
-these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
-alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
-who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
-to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
-breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
-suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
-knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
-and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
-Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
-Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
-him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
-whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
-dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
-belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
-
-Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
-the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
-his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
-of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
-such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
-a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
-wailing children.
-
-No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
-this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
-open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
-and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
-from him in the Hall.
-
-“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
-with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
-Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
-under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
-
-The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
-her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
-others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
-clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
-and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
-expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
-a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
-wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
-to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
-telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
-
-At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
-protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
-too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
-stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
-him!
-
-It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
-had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
-wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
-her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
-had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
-perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
-out! Bring him to the lamp!”
-
-Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
-his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
-and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
-face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
-entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
-action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
-another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
-a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
-of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
-might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
-while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
-screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
-him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
-held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
-mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
-
-Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
-and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
-the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
-people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
-five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
-on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
-breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
-pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
-through the streets.
-
-Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
-wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
-long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
-they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
-embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
-again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
-frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
-slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
-common, afterwards supping at their doors.
-
-Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
-most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
-some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
-cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
-share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
-and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
-hoped.
-
-It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
-knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
-husky tones, while fastening the door:
-
-“At last it is come, my dear!”
-
-“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
-
-Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
-her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
-only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
-Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
-the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
-was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
-Antoine's bosom.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII. Fire Rises
-
-
-There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
-the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
-highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
-poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
-crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
-but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
-them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
-be what he was ordered.
-
-Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
-Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
-shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
-dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
-animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
-out.
-
-Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
-blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
-luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
-nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
-things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
-Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
-be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
-was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
-flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
-its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
-to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
-unaccountable.
-
-But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
-it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
-it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
-of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
-the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
-of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
-the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
-disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
-beautifying features of Monseigneur.
-
-For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
-dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
-to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
-thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
-he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
-and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
-foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
-a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
-without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
-aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
-mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
-highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
-with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
-
-Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
-as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
-could get from a shower of hail.
-
-The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
-and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
-in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
-intelligible:
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?”
-
-“All well, Jacques.”
-
-“Touch then!”
-
-They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
-
-“No dinner?”
-
-“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
-
-“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”
-
-He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
-steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
-it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
-thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
-
-“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
-time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
-
-“To-night?” said the mender of roads.
-
-“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
-
-“Where?”
-
-“Here.”
-
-He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
-one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
-of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
-
-“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
-
-“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
-here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”
-
-“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
-over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
-Well?”
-
-“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
-village.”
-
-“Good. When do you cease to work?”
-
-“At sunset.”
-
-“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
-resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
-wake me?”
-
-“Surely.”
-
-The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
-great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
-was fast asleep directly.
-
-As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
-away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
-by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
-now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
-heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
-his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
-The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
-red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
-beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
-and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
-of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
-footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
-with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
-leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
-sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
-secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
-with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
-Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
-drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
-this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
-looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
-obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
-
-The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
-brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
-of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
-them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
-the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
-to go down into the village, roused him.
-
-“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
-summit of the hill?”
-
-“About.”
-
-“About. Good!”
-
-The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
-according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
-squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
-appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
-When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
-as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
-curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
-together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
-looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
-chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
-alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
-chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
-the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
-to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
-
-The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
-solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
-the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
-flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
-swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
-the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
-stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
-had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
-heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
-branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
-lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
-was black again.
-
-But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
-visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
-Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
-picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
-and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
-Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
-stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
-
-A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
-there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
-spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
-space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
-Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
-impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
-mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
-with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
-sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.
-
-The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
-through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
-the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
-removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
-chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
-timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
-looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
-of lips, “It must burn.”
-
-As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
-village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
-fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
-lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
-every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
-occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
-Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
-that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
-authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
-and that post-horses would roast.
-
-The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
-raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
-infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
-and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
-torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
-two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
-again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
-and contending with the fire.
-
-The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
-scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
-figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
-lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
-dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
-heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
-splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
-birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
-trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
-roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
-destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
-abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.
-
-Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
-bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
-the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
-of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
-days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
-house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
-Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
-with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
-withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
-resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
-of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
-parapet, and crush a man or two below.
-
-Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
-distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
-combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
-ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
-which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
-A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
-the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
-Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
-rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
-and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
-while.
-
-Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
-other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
-the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
-had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
-less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
-functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
-in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
-North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
-The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
-no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
-successfully.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
-In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
-the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
-flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
-the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
-of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
-tissue of the life of her home.
-
-Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
-the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
-feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
-a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
-danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
-in.
-
-Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
-his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
-to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
-this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
-infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
-ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
-boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
-and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
-sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
-
-The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
-mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
-eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
-Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
-out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
-outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
-all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
-“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
-
-The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
-come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
-
-As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
-Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
-haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
-without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
-Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
-to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
-house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
-from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
-storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
-provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
-by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
-from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
-a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
-time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
-was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
-consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
-out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
-through Temple Bar to read.
-
-On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
-Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
-penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
-the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
-hour or so of the time of closing.
-
-“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
-Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”
-
-“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
-disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
-
-“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
-some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
-enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
-upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
-interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
-disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
-House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
-old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
-long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
-myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
-these years, who ought to be?”
-
-“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
-and like one thinking aloud.
-
-“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
-Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
-are a wise counsellor.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
-thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
-my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
-the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
-here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
-and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
-after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
-
-“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
-are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
-France at this time of day!”
-
-“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
-more to the purpose that you say you are.”
-
-“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
-glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
-conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
-of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
-Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
-of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
-might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
-afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
-with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
-getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
-precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
-I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
-bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
-the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
-
-“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
-the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
-Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
-impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
-to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
-whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
-every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
-the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
-as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
-
-“And do you really go to-night?”
-
-“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
-delay.”
-
-“And do you take no one with you?”
-
-“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
-to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
-bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
-Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
-of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
-master.”
-
-“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
-youthfulness.”
-
-“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
-commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
-live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
-
-This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
-Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
-would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
-much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
-was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
-terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
-the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
-omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
-millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
-should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
-years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
-vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
-restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
-and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
-without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
-such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
-in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
-already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
-
-Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
-way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
-to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
-them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
-accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
-of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
-with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
-going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
-word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
-
-The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
-before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
-whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
-that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
-name. The address, turned into English, ran:
-
-“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
-France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
-London, England.”
-
-On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
-express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
-be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
-between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
-suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
-
-“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
-I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
-gentleman is to be found.”
-
-The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
-was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
-held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
-person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
-it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
-and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
-English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
-
-“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
-polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
-knew him.”
-
-“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
-been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
-hay--“some years ago.”
-
-“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
-through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
-Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
-the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
-
-“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
-fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
-
-Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
-the shoulder, and said:
-
-“I know the fellow.”
-
-“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
-times.”
-
-“But I do ask why?”
-
-“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
-hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
-who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
-ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
-that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
-man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
-because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
-why.”
-
-Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
-said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”
-
-“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
-Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
-understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
-tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
-to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
-gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
-“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
-find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
-precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
-of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
-
-With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
-shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
-his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
-in the general departure from the Bank.
-
-“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
-deliver it?”
-
-“I do.”
-
-“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
-addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
-that it has been here some time?”
-
-“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
-
-“From here, at eight.”
-
-“I will come back, to see you off.”
-
-Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
-Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
-letter, and read it. These were its contents:
-
-
-“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
-
-“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
-
-“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
-village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
-brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
-great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
-ground.
-
-“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
-life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
-the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
-emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
-against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
-before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
-imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
-had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
-an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
-
-“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
-emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
-not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
-ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
-
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
-succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
-Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
-
-“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
-nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
-assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
-
-“Your afflicted,
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-
-The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
-by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
-only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
-reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
-considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
-
-He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
-the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
-resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
-conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
-he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
-his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
-mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
-systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
-do it, and that it had never been done.
-
-The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
-always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
-which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
-annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
-following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
-these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
-without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
-the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
-until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
-France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
-confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
-was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
-France that might impeach him for it.
-
-But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
-far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
-relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
-favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
-bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
-on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
-there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
-in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
-the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
-own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
-
-This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
-that he would go to Paris.
-
-Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
-him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
-to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
-him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
-attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
-worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
-could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
-trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
-and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
-him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
-brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
-(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
-which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
-coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
-letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
-justice, honour, and good name.
-
-His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
-
-Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
-struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
-with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
-it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
-gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
-it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
-sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
-saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
-Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
-
-As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
-neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
-Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
-reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
-should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
-the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
-situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
-to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
-discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
-in his course.
-
-He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
-return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
-in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
-nothing of his intention now.
-
-A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
-booted and equipped.
-
-“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
-would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
-perhaps you will take a verbal one?”
-
-“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”
-
-“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
-
-“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
-hand.
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
-
-“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
-
-“Any time mentioned?”
-
-“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
-
-“Any person mentioned?”
-
-“No.”
-
-He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
-and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
-misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
-Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
- Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
-rolled away.
-
-That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
-two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
-he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
-that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
-personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
-their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
-strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
-in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
-
-It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
-reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
-preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
-But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
-resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
-so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
-the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
-scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
-(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
-of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
-streets, with a heavier heart.
-
-The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
-and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
-two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
-midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
-his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
-floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
-
-
-The end of the second book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
-
-
-
-I. In Secret
-
-
-The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
-England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
-ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
-horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
-unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
-but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
-these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
-citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
-of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
-inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
-turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
-hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
-Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
-Death.
-
-A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
-Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
-was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
-at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
-Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
-the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
-the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
-watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
-or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
-felt his freedom more completely gone.
-
-This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
-times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
-riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
-by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
-days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
-a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
-
-Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
-prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
-guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
-to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
-a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
-had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
-
-Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
-red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
-
-“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
-under an escort.”
-
-“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
-dispense with the escort.”
-
-“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
-of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”
-
-“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
-are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”
-
-“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.
-
-“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
-not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”
-
-“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
-and dress yourself, emigrant.”
-
-Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
-patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
-a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
-started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.
-
-The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
-cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
-side of him.
-
-The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
-his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
-wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
-faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
-and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
-change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
-between them and the capital.
-
-They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
-lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
-that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
-shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
-being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
-as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
-his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
-that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
-he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
-of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
-confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
-
-But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
-when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
-himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
-gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
-out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”
-
-He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
-resuming it as his safest place, said:
-
-“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
-will?”
-
-“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
-furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
-aristocrat!”
-
-The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
-bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
-be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”
-
-“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
-as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.
-
-Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
-yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
-the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
-voice heard:
-
-“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
-traitor.”
-
-“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
-is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”
-
-At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
-another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
-horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
-and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
-struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
-more was done.
-
-“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
-postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
-
-“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”
-
-“When passed?”
-
-“On the fourteenth.”
-
-“The day I left England!”
-
-“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
-others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
-condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
-your life was not your own.”
-
-“But there are no such decrees yet?”
-
-“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
-may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”
-
-They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
-then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
-wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
-unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
-lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
-cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
-would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
-circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
-up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
-Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
-into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
-wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
-that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
-the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
-way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
-
-Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
-closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
-
-“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
-in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
-
-Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
-speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
-in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
-imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.
-
-“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
-whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
-
-The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
-eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
-disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
-
-He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
-into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
-gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
-Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
-patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
-into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
-traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
-people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
-to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
-forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
-filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
-their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
-ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
-about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
-and women.
-
-When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
-things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
-who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
-escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
-to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
-turned and rode away without entering the city.
-
-He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
-and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
-drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
-waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
-light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
-the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
-uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
-officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
-
-“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
-paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
-
-“This is the man.”
-
-“Your age, Evremonde?”
-
-“Thirty-seven.”
-
-“Married, Evremonde?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Where married?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
-Force.”
-
-“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
-
-The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
-
-“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
-said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
-
-“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
-to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
-demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
-my right?”
-
-“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
-wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
-sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”
-
-Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
-him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
-them.
-
-“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
-guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
-Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
-
-“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
-Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”
-
-“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”
-
-The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
-with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
-and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”
-
-“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
-truth?”
-
-“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
-looking straight before him.
-
-“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
-sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
-little help?”
-
-“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
-
-“Will you answer me a single question?”
-
-“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”
-
-“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
-communication with the world outside?”
-
-“You will see.”
-
-“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
-presenting my case?”
-
-“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
-in worse prisons, before now.”
-
-“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”
-
-Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
-and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
-there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
-He, therefore, made haste to say:
-
-“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
-than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
-Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
-the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
-prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”
-
-“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
-my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
-I will do nothing for you.”
-
-Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
-was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
-how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
-streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
-their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
-otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
-more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
-going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
-passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
-audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
-family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
-it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
-foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
-Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
-watchfulness had completely isolated him.
-
-That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
-developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
-perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
-yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
-might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
-of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
-the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
-was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
-hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
-rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
-garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
-been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
-called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
-of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
-probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
-they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
-
-Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
-from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
-certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
-his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
-arrived at the prison of La Force.
-
-A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
-presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”
-
-“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
-bloated face.
-
-Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
-with his two fellow-patriots.
-
-“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
-“How many more!”
-
-The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
-replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
-responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
-the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
-conclusion.
-
-The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
-horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
-flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
-are ill cared for!
-
-“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
-if I was not already full to bursting!”
-
-He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
-awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
-fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
-either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
-subordinates.
-
-“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
-emigrant.”
-
-Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
-corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
-until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
-prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
-and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
-most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
-room.
-
-In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
-disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
-unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
-receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
-all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
-
-So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
-gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
-misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
-in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
-of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
-frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
-waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
-that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
-
-It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
-gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
-in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
-coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
-there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
-mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
-likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
-utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
-of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
-
-“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
-gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
-honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
-on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
-happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
-to ask your name and condition?”
-
-Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
-words as suitable as he could find.
-
-“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
-eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”
-
-“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
-so.”
-
-“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
-members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
-but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
-the society--in secret.”
-
-There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
-to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
-which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
-him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
-render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
-the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
-
-The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
-ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
-them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
-solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
-
-“Yours,” said the gaoler.
-
-“Why am I confined alone?”
-
-“How do I know!”
-
-“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”
-
-“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
-present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”
-
-There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
-the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
-walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
-the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
-was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
-a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
-gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
-dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
-with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
-is the first condition of the body after death.”
-
-“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
-paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
-counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
-drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
-shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
-paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
-“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
-them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
-embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
-hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
-through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
-made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
-a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
-his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
-and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
-still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
-knew, in the swell that rose above them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Grindstone
-
-
-Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
-in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
-the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
-a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
-troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
-mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
-metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
-of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
-besides the cook in question.
-
-Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
-sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
-willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
-indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
-house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
-things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
-precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
-of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
-Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
-drinking brandy in its state apartments.
-
-A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
-would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
-For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
-said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
-over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
-Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
-linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
-night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
-Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
-the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
-also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
-provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
-exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
-taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
-
-What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
-lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
-Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
-and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
-Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
-the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
-a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
-prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
-deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
-room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.
-
-He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
-he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
-derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
-building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
-that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
-his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
-was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
-of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
-great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
-open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
-to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
-or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
-objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
-opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
-he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.
-
-From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
-the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
-in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
-nature were going up to Heaven.
-
-“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
-dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
-who are in danger!”
-
-Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
-“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
-irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
-clash again, and all was quiet.
-
-The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
-uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
-awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
-go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
-opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
-amazement.
-
-Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
-that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
-seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
-force and power to it in this one passage of her life.
-
-“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
-matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
-What is it?”
-
-With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
-out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”
-
-“Your husband, Lucie?”
-
-“Charles.”
-
-“What of Charles?”
-
-“Here.
-
-“Here, in Paris?”
-
-“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
-collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
-us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”
-
-The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
-bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
-came pouring into the courtyard.
-
-“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
-don't touch the blind!”
-
-The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
-said, with a cool, bold smile:
-
-“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
-a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
-France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
-touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
-My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
-barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
-knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
-told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
-dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
-terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
-having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
-this fatal place. What prison is he in?”
-
-“La Force!”
-
-“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
-your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
-do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
-I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
-you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
-to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
-instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
-room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
-two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
-delay.”
-
-“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
-nothing else than this. I know you are true.”
-
-The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
-key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
-partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
-looked out with him into the courtyard.
-
-Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
-enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
-people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
-had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
-there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
-
-But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
-
-The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
-men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
-the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
-the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
-False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
-hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
-howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
-sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
-forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
-held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
-blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
-struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
-fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
-the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
-sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
-over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
-upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
-and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
-and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
-sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
-the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
-of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
-as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
-of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
-their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
-given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
-
-All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
-any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
-were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
-explanation in his friend's ashy face.
-
-“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
-the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
-say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
-have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
-may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”
-
-Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
-and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
-
-His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
-confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
-carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
-For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
-the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
-surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
-linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
-cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
-kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
-the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.
-
-He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
-and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
-assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
-her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
-surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
-watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
-
-Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
-clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
-bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
-charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
-the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
-
-Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
-irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
-“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
-sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
-and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”
-
-Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
-Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
-from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
-besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
-to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
-the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
-Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
-the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
-climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
-dainty cushions.
-
-The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
-and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
-alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
-never given, and would never take away.
-
-
-
-
-III. The Shadow
-
-
-One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
-Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
-imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
-the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
-for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
-he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
-man of business.
-
-At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
-the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
-the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
-same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
-most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
-its dangerous workings.
-
-Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
-tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
-that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
-Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
-this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
-he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
-went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
-in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
-of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
-
-To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
-giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
-He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
-considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
-A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
-and heavily the day lagged on with him.
-
-It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
-was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
-do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
-man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
-addressed him by his name.
-
-“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”
-
-He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
-to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
-emphasis, the words:
-
-“Do you know me?”
-
-“I have seen you somewhere.”
-
-“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”
-
-Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
-Manette?”
-
-“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”
-
-“And what says he? What does he send me?”
-
-Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
-words in the Doctor's writing:
-
- “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
- I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
- from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.”
-
-It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
-
-“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
-this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”
-
-“Yes,” returned Defarge.
-
-Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
-way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
-courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
-
-“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
-the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
-
-“It is she,” observed her husband.
-
-“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
-they moved.
-
-“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
-It is for their safety.”
-
-Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
-at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
-The Vengeance.
-
-They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
-ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
-and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
-tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
-delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
-the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
-
- “DEAREST,--Take courage. I am well, and your father has
- influence around me. You cannot answer this.
- Kiss our child for me.”
-
-That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
-it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
-hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
-action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
-to its knitting again.
-
-There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
-the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
-neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
-eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
-
-“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
-risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
-trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
-to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
-may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
-reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
-upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”
-
-Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
-gruff sound of acquiescence.
-
-“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
-propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
-good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
-French.”
-
-The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
-match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
-appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
-whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
-_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
-Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
-
-“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
-first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
-were the finger of Fate.
-
-“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
-daughter, and only child.”
-
-The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
-threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
-kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
-shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
-threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.
-
-“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
-may go.”
-
-But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
-presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
-she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:
-
-“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
-help me to see him if you can?”
-
-“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
-down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
-who is my business here.”
-
-“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
-will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
-afraid of you than of these others.”
-
-Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
-Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
-collected his face into a sterner expression.
-
-“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
-Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
-influence?”
-
-“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
-breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
-much influence around him.”
-
-“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”
-
-“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
-have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
-my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
-of me. As a wife and mother!”
-
-Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
-turning to her friend The Vengeance:
-
-“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
-as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
-known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
-often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
-themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
-sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”
-
-“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.
-
-“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
-again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
-and mother would be much to us now?”
-
-She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
-went last, and closed the door.
-
-“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
-courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
-late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”
-
-“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
-shadow on me and on all my hopes.”
-
-“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
-little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”
-
-But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
-for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Calm in Storm
-
-
-Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
-absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
-kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
-not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
-know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
-ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
-darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
-tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
-the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
-some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
-which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
-scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
-found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
-brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
-to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
-to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
-had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
-years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
-body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
-man was Defarge.
-
-That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
-that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
-to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
-dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
-and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
-a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
-to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
-examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
-the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
-to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
-the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
-the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
-inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
-was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
-Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
-assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
-delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
-often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
-had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
-
-The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
-intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
-saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
-those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
-been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
-thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
-the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
-in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
-of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
-awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
-with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
-carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
-anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
-with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
-
-As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
-his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
-such dread experiences would revive the old danger.
-
-But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
-at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
-felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
-he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
-could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
-“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
-As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
-helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
-of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
-the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
-of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
-clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
-had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
-
-Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
-have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
-in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
-of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
-personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
-of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
-that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
-general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
-messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
-sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
-not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
-plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
-known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.
-
-This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
-sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
-Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
-but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
-time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
-and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
-Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
-that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
-ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
-that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
-trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
-and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
-affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
-rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
-curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
-natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
-couldn't be in better hands.”
-
-But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
-Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
-the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
-era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
-against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
-great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
-against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
-of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
-had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
-alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
-the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
-and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
-fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
-What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
-One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
-and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!
-
-There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
-measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
-time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
-count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
-of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
-unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
-head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
-head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
-widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
-
-And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
-all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
-revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
-revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
-which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
-any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
-with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
-these things became the established order and nature of appointed
-things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
-Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
-the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
-sharp female called La Guillotine.
-
-It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
-it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
-peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
-shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
-and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
-human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
-from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
-believed in where the Cross was denied.
-
-It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
-were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
-Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
-the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
-good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
-dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
-The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
-functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
-namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
-day.
-
-Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
-with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
-end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
-current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
-away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
-months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
-wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
-that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
-violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
-under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
-terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
-that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
-in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
-victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
-appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
-other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
-he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
-a Spirit moving among mortals.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wood-Sawyer
-
-
-One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
-sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
-husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
-tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
-women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
-old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
-daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
-and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
-Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
-bestow, O Guillotine!
-
-If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
-had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
-despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
-the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
-the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
-truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
-will always be.
-
-As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
-had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
-household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
-its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
-as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
-slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
-that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
-return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
-solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
-unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
-outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
-
-She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
-mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
-attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
-and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
-thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
-night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
-repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
-was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
-without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”
-
-They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
-father said to her, on coming home one evening:
-
-“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
-sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
-it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
-in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
-show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
-if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”
-
-“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”
-
-From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
-clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
-When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
-went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
-single day.
-
-It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
-of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
-end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
-her.
-
-“Good day, citizeness.”
-
-“Good day, citizen.”
-
-This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
-established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
-but, was now law for everybody.
-
-“Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“You see me, citizen!”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
-had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
-at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
-bars, peeped through them jocosely.
-
-“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.
-
-Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
-appeared.
-
-“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
-
-“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
-
-“Yes, dearest.”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
-call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
-comes!”
-
-The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
-
-“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
-Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
-Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
-family!”
-
-Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
-impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
-his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
-first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
-
-He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
-him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
-up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
-with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
-not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
-briskly fall to his sawing again.
-
-In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
-spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
-in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
-this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
-Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
-five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
-for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
-see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
-waited out the day, seven days a week.
-
-These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
-father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
-afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
-rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
-decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
-also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
-(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
-
-The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
-surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
-somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
-with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
-and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
-saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
-female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
-was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
-
-But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
-and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
-afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
-prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
-The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
-they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
-than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
-keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
-Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
-together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
-mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
-filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
-apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
-advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
-another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
-in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
-linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
-and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
-all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
-reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
-again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
-of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
-up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
-as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
-innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
-a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
-heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
-warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
-bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
-delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
-the disjointed time.
-
-This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
-bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
-fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
-
-“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
-had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
-
-“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
-frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”
-
-“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
-husband, and the mercies of these people--”
-
-“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
-the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
-kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
-
-“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
-
-“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
-
-“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
-“no.”
-
-A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
- from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
-Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
-
-“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
-and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
-“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-“For to-morrow!”
-
-“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
-to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
-before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
-that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
-Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”
-
-She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
-
-“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
-be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
-protection. I must see Lorry.”
-
-He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
-both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
-away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
-
-“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
-
-The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
-and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
-and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
-better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
-hold his peace.
-
-A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
-the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
-Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
-deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
-National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
-Fraternity, or Death!
-
-Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
-chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
-agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
-he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
-turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
-he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
-
-
-
-
-VI. Triumph
-
-
-The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
-Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
-read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
-standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
-inside there!”
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
-
-So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
-
-When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
-for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
-Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
-hundreds pass away so.
-
-His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
-to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
-list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
-names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
-summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
-guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
-where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
-arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
-creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
-scaffold.
-
-There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
-soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
-were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
-concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
-there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
-refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
-common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
-who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
-insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
-time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
-or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
-brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
-boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
-seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
-disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
-like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
-them.
-
-The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
-vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
-put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
-were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.
-
-His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
-and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
-at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
-usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
-honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
-without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
-spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
-anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
-the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
-knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
-knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
-her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
-he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
-remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
-his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
-in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
-himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
-be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
-the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
-in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
-Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
-wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
-Carmagnole.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
-as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
-which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
-decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
-the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
-
-“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”
-
-The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
-prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
-England?
-
-Undoubtedly it was.
-
-Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
-
-Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
-
-Why not? the President desired to know.
-
-Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
-to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
-his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
-acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
-England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
-
-What proof had he of this?
-
-He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
-Alexandre Manette.
-
-But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
-
-True, but not an English woman.
-
-A citizeness of France?
-
-Yes. By birth.
-
-Her name and family?
-
-“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
-sits there.”
-
-This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
-of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
-the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
-countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
-if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
-
-On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
-according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
-counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
-inch of his road.
-
-The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
-sooner?
-
-He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
-of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
-he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
-He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
-a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
-absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
-testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
-in the eyes of the Republic?
-
-The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
-bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
- until they left off, of their own will.
-
-The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
-that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
-to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
-but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
-the President.
-
-The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
-it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
-and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
-Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
-pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
-enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
-overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
-of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
-had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
-declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
-answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
-called Darnay.
-
-Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
-and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
-proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
-release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
-England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
-their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
-government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
-the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
-circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
-straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
-populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
-Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
-had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
-account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
-they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
-receive them.
-
-At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
-set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
-favour, and the President declared him free.
-
-Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
-sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
-generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
-their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
-these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
-to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
-was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
-at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
-prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
-his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
-exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
-people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
-the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
-streets.
-
-His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
-rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
-together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
-assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
-itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
-him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
-hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
-of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
-Republic!”
-
-The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
-for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
-crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
-Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
-concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
-turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
-which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
-shore.
-
-They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
-taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
-Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
-had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
-even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
-on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
-and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
-he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
-was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
-
-In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
-him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
-prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
-they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
-him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
-had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
-feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
-
-As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
-face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
-together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
-rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
-Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
-crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
-overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
-and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
-them away.
-
-After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
-before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
-breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
-after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
-his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
-lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
-rooms.
-
-“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
-
-“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
-prayed to Him.”
-
-They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
-his arms, he said to her:
-
-“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
-could have done what he has done for me.”
-
-She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
-head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
-had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
-strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
-tremble so. I have saved him.”
-
-
-
-
-VII. A Knock at the Door
-
-
-“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
-often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
-vague but heavy fear was upon her.
-
-All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
-revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
-vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
-many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
-her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
-heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
-The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
-the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
-them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
-his real presence and trembled more.
-
-Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
-woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
-no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
-he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
-them all lean upon him.
-
-Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
-the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
-because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
-had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
-the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
-partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
-citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
-occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
-Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
-night.
-
-It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
-Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
-house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
-of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
-Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
-below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
-himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
-employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
-Darnay.
-
-In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
-harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
-in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
-were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
-shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
-possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
-
-For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
-office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
-basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
-lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
-such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
-association with a French family, might have known as much of their
-language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
-direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
-pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
-was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
-introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
-the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
-of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
-made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
-one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
-
-“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
-“if you are ready, I am.”
-
-Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
-all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
-
-“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
-have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
-these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
-
-“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
- retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”
-
-“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
-Nick's.”
-
-“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
-meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
-and Mischief.”
-
-“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.
-
-“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
-among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
-smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
-streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
-Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
-pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
-May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”
-
-“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.
-
-“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
-that,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
-
-“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
-short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
-Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
-as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
-tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
-after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
-
-“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
-had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
-“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
-way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
-with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
-prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
-
-“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
-
-“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
-glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
-must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
-fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
-you move, Ladybird!”
-
-They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
-child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
-Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
-a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
-sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
-in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
-a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
-a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
-quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
-
-“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
-
-“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
-on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
-least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”
-
-“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
-and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
-
-“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
-
-As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
-
-“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
-
-“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
-shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
-to the door.”
-
-He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
-and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
-men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
-
-“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
-
-“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
-
-“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
-Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”
-
-The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
-to him.
-
-“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”
-
-“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
-know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
-stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
-moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
-the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
-woollen shirt, said:
-
-“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
-
-“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
-
-“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
-
-He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
-after a pause:
-
-“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
-the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
-had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
-
-The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
-
-“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
-
-“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
-more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
-a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
-The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”
-
-“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”
-
-“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
-Antoine here.”
-
-The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
-feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
-
-“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
-the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”
-
-“What other?”
-
-“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
-answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
-
-
-
-
-VIII. A Hand at Cards
-
-
-Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
-way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
-Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
-she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
-both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
-passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
-turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
-was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
-lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
-stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
-Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
-undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
-grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
-
-Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
-for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
-After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
-once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
-took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
-description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
-not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
-opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
-attended by her cavalier.
-
-Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
-playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
-bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
-the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
-resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
-popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
-like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
-the counter, and showed what they wanted.
-
-As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
-corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
-sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
-her hands.
-
-In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
-assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
-likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
-saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
-the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
-evidently English.
-
-What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
-voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
-Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
-ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
-not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
-Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
-account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.
-
-“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
-speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
-English.
-
-“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
-“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
-do I find you here!”
-
-“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
-man, in a furtive, frightened way.
-
-“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
-been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
-
-“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
-want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”
-
-Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
-affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”
-
-“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”
-
-Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
-word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
-through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
-so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
-of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
-language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
-pursuits.
-
-“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
-want?”
-
-“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
-from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
-affection.”
-
-“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
-lips with his own. “Now are you content?”
-
-Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
-
-“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
-surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
-you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
-do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
-am an official.”
-
-“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
-tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
-greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
-such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
-his--”
-
-“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
-the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
-as I am getting on!”
-
-“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
-rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
-loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
-and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
-detain you no longer.”
-
-Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
-culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
-ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
-her money and left her!
-
-He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
-condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
-merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
-all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
-hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
-question:
-
-“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
-or Solomon John?”
-
-The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
-previously uttered a word.
-
-“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
-was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
-calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
-you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
-name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
-was, over the water.”
-
-“No?”
-
-“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
-at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
-yourself, was you called at that time?”
-
-“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
-
-“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
-
-The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
-him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
-elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
-
-“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
-surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
-elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
-myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
-better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
-was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”
-
-Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
-who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
-
-“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
-of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
-an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
-faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
-a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
-the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
-direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
-sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
-conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
-nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
-to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“What purpose?” the spy asked.
-
-“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
-street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
-company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”
-
-“Under a threat?”
-
-“Oh! Did I say that?”
-
-“Then, why should I go there?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”
-
-“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
-
-“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”
-
-Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
-quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
-and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
-made the most of it.
-
-“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
-sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
-
-“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
-But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
-pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
-satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”
-
-“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”
-
-“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
-own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
-at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
-knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
-ready? Come then!”
-
-Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
-remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
-in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
-purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
-contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
-too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
-her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
-heed what she observed.
-
-They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
-Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
-Pross, walked at his side.
-
-Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
-little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
-picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
-into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
-ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
-which he saw a stranger.
-
-“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
-with the name--and with the face.”
-
-“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
-coolly. “Pray sit down.”
-
-As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
-by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
-immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
-look of abhorrence.
-
-“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
-brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
-relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”
-
-Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
-tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
-to return to him!”
-
-“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Just now, if at all.”
-
-“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
-have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
-over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
-messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
-earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
-of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
-might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
-silently attentive.
-
-“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
-Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
-would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”
-
-“Yes; I believe so.”
-
-“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
-to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
-power to prevent this arrest.”
-
-“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
-identified he is with his son-in-law.”
-
-“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
-chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.
-
-“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
-are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
-will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
-carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
-stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
-in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
-Barsad.”
-
-“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
-
-“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
-brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
-
-It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
-glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
-
-“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
-over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
-committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
-so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
-is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
-Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
-That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
-French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
-English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
-card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
-Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
-spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
-the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
-difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
-hand, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
-
-“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
-Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
-hurry.”
-
-He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
-drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
-into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
-poured out and drank another glassful.
-
-“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
-
-It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
-in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
-employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
-there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
-vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
-date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
-France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
-there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
-knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
-Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
-such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
-release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
-familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
-Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
-with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
-talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
-He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
-again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
-guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
-he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
-he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
-his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
-terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
-grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
-that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
-proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
-his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
-terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
-the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
-
-“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
-composure. “Do you play?”
-
-“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
-Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
-put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
-under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
-of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
-considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
-somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
-himself as to make himself one?”
-
-“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
-and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
-
-“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
-hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”
-
-“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
-relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“You think not, sir?”
-
-“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
-
-The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
-ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
-received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
-mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
-failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
-of contemplating cards:
-
-“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
-have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
-fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
-who was he?”
-
-“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
-
-“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
-at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”
-
-“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
-
-“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
-way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
-the face.”
-
-“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.
-
-“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
-glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
-French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”
-
-“Provincial,” said the spy.
-
-“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
-light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
-had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”
-
-“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
-aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
-me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
-distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
-attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
-of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
-multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
-to lay him in his coffin.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
-goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
-to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
-risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
-
-“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
-how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
-lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
-carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
-it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
-it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
-Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
-violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
-crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
-
-Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
-the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
-
-“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
-iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Who took him out of it?”
-
-Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”
-
-“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
-I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
-
-The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
-unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.
-
-“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
-that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
-take in. Me and two more knows it.”
-
-“How do you know it?”
-
-“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
-old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
-I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
-
-Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
-this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
-explain himself.
-
-“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
-ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
-wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
-in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
-throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
-quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”
-
-“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
-Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
-you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
-aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
-the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
-A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
-card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”
-
-“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
-with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
-of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
-he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
-man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
-
-“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
-Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
-that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
-be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
-liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
-guinea.”
-
-The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
-with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
-can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
-Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
-office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
-life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
-I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
-here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
-way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
-me?”
-
-“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”
-
-“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
- said the spy, firmly.
-
-“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
-Conciergerie?”
-
-“I am sometimes.”
-
-“You can be when you choose?”
-
-“I can pass in and out when I choose.”
-
-Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
-upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
-said, rising:
-
-“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
-the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
-into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Game Made
-
-
-While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
-dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
-at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
-manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
-leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
-and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
-questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
-his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
-hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
-infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
-of him.
-
-“What have you been, besides a messenger?”
-
-After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
-Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
-character.”
-
-“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
-at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
-as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
-description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
-get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
-Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
-
-“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
-yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
-would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
-is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
-it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
-to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
-up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
-fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
-yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
-their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
-out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
-Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
-goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
-in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
-a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
-ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
-it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
-and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
-undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
-with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
-much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
-prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
-all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
-once in--even if it wos so.”
-
-“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
-the sight of you.”
-
-“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
-“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”
-
-“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
-further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
-would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
-that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
-be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
-your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
-wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
-you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
-his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
-let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
-for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
-a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
-That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
-arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
-discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
-see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
-without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
-to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
-things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
-fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
-cause when I might have kep' it back.”
-
-“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
-that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
-action--not in words. I want no more words.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
-returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
-arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
-
-He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
-were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
-
-“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
-to him, once.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
-
-“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
-to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
-worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
-weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”
-
-“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
-Tribunal, will not save him.”
-
-“I never said it would.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
-darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
-weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
-and his tears fell.
-
-“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
-voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
-father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
-sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
-however.”
-
-Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
-was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
-that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
-unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
-
-“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
-interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
-him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
-to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
-see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
-evidently understood it.
-
-“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
-only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
-I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
-little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
-You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”
-
-“I am going now, directly.”
-
-“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
-on you. How does she look?”
-
-“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
-
-“Ah!”
-
-It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
-attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
-fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
-passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
-wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
-flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
-and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
-light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
-all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
-sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
-his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
-broken under the weight of his foot.
-
-“I forgot it,” he said.
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
-wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
-the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
-reminded of that expression.
-
-“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
-to him.
-
-“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
-unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
-have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
-my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”
-
-They were both silent.
-
-“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.
-
-“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”
-
-“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
-trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
-
-“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
-may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”
-
-“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
-you when you leave it empty!”
-
-“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
-is nobody to weep for me.”
-
-“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”
-
-“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”
-
-“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”
-
-“Surely, surely.”
-
-“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
-'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
-respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
-regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
-your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
-not?”
-
-“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”
-
-Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
-few moments, said:
-
-“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
-days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
-
-Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
-
-“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
-closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
-nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
-preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
-that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
-and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
-so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
-
-“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
-you are the better for it?”
-
-“I hope so.”
-
-Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
-his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
-are young.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
-age. Enough of me.”
-
-“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”
-
-“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
-habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
-uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”
-
-“Yes, unhappily.”
-
-“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
-place for me. Take my arm, sir.”
-
-Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
-few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
-there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
-again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
-the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
-“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
-her steps.”
-
-It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
-where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
-closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
-
-“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
-man eyed him inquisitively.
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“How goes the Republic?”
-
-“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
-to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
-exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
-
-“Do you often go to see him--”
-
-“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
-citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
-than two pipes. Word of honour!”
-
-As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
-how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
-to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
-
-“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
-English dress?”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
-
-“You speak like a Frenchman.”
-
-“I am an old student here.”
-
-“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
-him. “And take a pipe with you!”
-
-Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
-the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
-of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
-the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
-for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
-terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
-his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
-thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
-
-Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
-counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
-whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”
-
-Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
-
-“For you, citizen?”
-
-“For me.”
-
-“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
-consequences of mixing them?”
-
-“Perfectly.”
-
-Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
-one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
-and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
-glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”
-
-It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
-aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
-negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
-had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
-his road and saw its end.
-
-Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
-youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
-mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
-read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
-streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
-on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
-he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
-whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
-rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
-and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
-and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
-brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
-might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
-went on.
-
-With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
-going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
-surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
-were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
-of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
-profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
-the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
-along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
-material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
-the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
-interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
-short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
-the lighter streets.
-
-Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
-suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
-shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
-people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
-one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
-for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
-and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
-
-“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
-were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
-and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
-heard them always.
-
-The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
-water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
-picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
-of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
-sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
-and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
-Death's dominion.
-
-But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
-of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
-And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
-appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
-sparkled under it.
-
-The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
-friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
-houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
-bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
-longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
-stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”
-
-A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
-glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
-in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
-for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
-ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
-where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
-little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
-himself, went out to the place of trial.
-
-The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
-away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
-Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
-sitting beside her father.
-
-When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
-sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
-tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
-blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
-there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
-Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
-
-Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
-ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
-been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
-first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
-Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
-
-Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
-republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
-after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
-his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
-gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
-cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
-Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
-
-Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
-No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
-murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
-in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
-another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
-retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
-Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
-one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
-privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
-called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
-
-To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
-
-The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
-
-“Openly, President.”
-
-“By whom?”
-
-“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
-
-A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
-Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
-
-“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
-a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
-daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
-and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
-of my child!”
-
-“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
-the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
-to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
-Republic.”
-
-Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
-with warmth resumed.
-
-“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
-herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
-to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
-
-Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
-his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
-closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
-and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
-
-Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
-being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
-his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
-and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
-This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
-
-“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
-best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
-there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
-it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”
-
-It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
-thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
-Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
- wherein she was likewise much commended.
-
-“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
-citizen.”
-
-“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
-bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
-“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
-known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
-knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
-when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
-when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
-the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
-gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
-stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
-that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
-of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
-I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
-the President.”
-
-“Let it be read.”
-
-In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
-lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
-solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
-reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
-never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
-intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
-follows.
-
-
-
-
-X. The Substance of the Shadow
-
-
-“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
-afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
-cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
-it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
-in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
-place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
-and my sorrows are dust.
-
-“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
-difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
-with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
-has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
-noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
-solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
-mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
-truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
-be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
-
-“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
-twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
-part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
-at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
-School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
-fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
-might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
-voice called to the driver to stop.
-
-“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
-and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
-was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
-door and alight before I came up with it.
-
-“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
-conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
-I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
-younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
-and (as far as I could see) face too.
-
-“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
-physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
-has made a rising reputation in Paris?'
-
-“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
-graciously.'
-
-“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
-so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
-probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
-overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'
-
-“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
-were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
-They were armed. I was not.
-
-“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
-the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
-which I am summoned.'
-
-“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
-your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
-our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
-yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
-enter the carriage?'
-
-“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
-entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
-carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
-
-“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
-it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
-place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
-the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
-paper in its hiding-place.
-
- *****
-
-“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
-emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
-Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
-when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
-stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
-a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
-overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
-answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
-the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
-
-“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
-for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
-other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
-with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
-alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
-
-“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
-locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
-relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
-conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
-ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
-lying on a bed.
-
-“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
-past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
-her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
-all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
-scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
-and the letter E.
-
-“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
-for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
-edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
-in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
-her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
-corner caught my sight.
-
-“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
-and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
-wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
-words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
-twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
-to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
-would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
-would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
-order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
-pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
-
-“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'
-
-“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
-younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
-was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'
-
-“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
-
-“'A brother.'
-
-“'I do not address her brother?'
-
-“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'
-
-“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'
-
-“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'
-
-“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
-useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
-to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
-are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
-
-“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
-a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
-the table.
-
- *****
-
-“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
-lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
-poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
-
-“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.
-
-“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
-more.
-
-“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
-efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
-after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
-sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
-in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
-a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
-furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
-old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
-sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
-succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
-counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
-not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
-them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
-in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
-soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
-figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
-regular.
-
-“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
-the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
-before the elder said:
-
-“'There is another patient.'
-
-“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'
-
-“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
-
- *****
-
-“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
-was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
-to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
-there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
-the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
-pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
-and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
-this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
-captivity, as I saw them all that night.
-
-“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
-handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
-He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
-breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
-where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
-that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
-
-“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'
-
-“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
-
-“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
-The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
-before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
-without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
-brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
-ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
-as if he were a fellow-creature.
-
-“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.
-
-“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
-and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'
-
-“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
-answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
-have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
-have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
-vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
-the boy, or about his fate.
-
-“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
-slowly moved to me.
-
-“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
-proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
-we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'
-
-“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
-distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
-
-“I said, 'I have seen her.'
-
-“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
-Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
-have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
-so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
-tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
-The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
-
-“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
-to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
-
-“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
-are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
-work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
-to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
-for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
-plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
-ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
-people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
-and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
-dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
-most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
-race die out!'
-
-“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
-like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
-somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
-dying boy.
-
-“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
-poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
-him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
-been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
-her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
-us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
-hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
-then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
-willing?'
-
-“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
-looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
-opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
-Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
-trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
-
-“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
-harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
-drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
-grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
-may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
-night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
-not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
-could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
-bell, and died on her bosom.'
-
-“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
-tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
-he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
-wound.
-
-“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
-brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
-brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
-it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
-for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
-tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
-that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
-beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
-_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
-in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
-somewhere here?'
-
-“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
-him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
-over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
-
-“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
-dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
-at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
-make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
-that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
-at me with all his skill for his life.'
-
-“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
-a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
-another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
-
-“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
-
-“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
-referred to the brother.
-
-“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
-man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
-
-“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
-moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
-me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
-
-“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
-his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
-answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
-answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
-I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
-I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
-separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
-it.'
-
-“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
-forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
-finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
-down dead.
-
- *****
-
-“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
-in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
-for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
-grave.
-
-“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
-the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
-quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
-of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
-One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
-twelve. Hush!'
-
-“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
-come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
-falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
-by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
-
-“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
-fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
-compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
-her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
-a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
-had of her.
-
-“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
-elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
-
-“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
-
-“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
-at her with some curiosity.
-
-“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
-despair.'
-
-“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
-chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
-subdued voice,
-
-“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
-recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
-and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
-of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
-and not spoken of.'
-
-“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
-
-“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
-
-“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
-are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
-was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
-
-“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
-pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
-resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
-
- *****
-
-“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
-fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
-darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
-failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
-was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
-
-“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
-syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
-asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
-was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
-head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
-
-“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
-brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
-then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
-woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
-the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
-that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
-if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.
-
-“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
-brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
-peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
-of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
-to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
-brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
-for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
-me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
-in the mind of the elder, too.
-
-“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
-answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
-with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
-all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
-
-“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
-away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
-their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
-
-“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
-
-“'She is dead,' said I.
-
-“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
-
-“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
-gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
-the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
-nothing.
-
-“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
-
-“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
-them, and we parted without another word on either side.
-
- *****
-
-“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
-have written with this gaunt hand.
-
-“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
-little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
-considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
-to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
-summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
-circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
-of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
-heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
-profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
-in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
-I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
-compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
-
-“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
-night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
-It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
-completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
-
- *****
-
-“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
-so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
-dreadful.
-
-“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
-life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
-wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
-boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
-on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
-had seen that nobleman very lately.
-
-“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
-conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
-know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
-in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
-share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
-was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
-in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
-Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
-
-“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
-her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
-but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
-inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
-that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
-wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
-
- *****
-
-“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
-yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
-
-“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
-could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
-was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
-husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
-pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
-
-“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
-all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
-inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
-atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
-I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
-jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
-compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
-the sister can be discovered.'
-
-“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
-sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
-bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
-went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
-
-“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
-I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
-trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
-
-“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
-a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
-my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
-into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
-My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
-the gate, standing silent behind him.
-
-“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
-he had a coach in waiting.
-
-“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
-house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
-my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
-corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
-his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
-of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
-Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
-grave.
-
-“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
-brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
-my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
-dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
-now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
-they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
-last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
-night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
-when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
-and to earth.”
-
-A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
-sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
-blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
-and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
-
-Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
-how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
-Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
-time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
-anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
-The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
-sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
-
-And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
-well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
-of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
-the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
-self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
-said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
-physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
-rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
-a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
-orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
-human sympathy.
-
-“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
-smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”
-
-At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
-roar.
-
-Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
-of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
-Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
-
-
-
-
-XI. Dusk
-
-
-The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
-the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
-sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
-she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
-it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
-
-The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
-the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
-emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
-stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
-but love and consolation.
-
-“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
-you would have so much compassion for us!”
-
-There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
-taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
-show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
-him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
-passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
-leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
-
-“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
-shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
-
-They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
-
-“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
-for me. A parting blessing for our child.”
-
-“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
-you.”
-
-“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
-“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
-by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
-will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”
-
-Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
-of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
-
-“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
-to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
-you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
-know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
-her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
-duty. Heaven be with you!”
-
-Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
-and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
-
-“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
-together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
-discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
-near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
-nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
-bless you!”
-
-As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
-with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
-with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
-smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
-lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
-feet.
-
-Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
-Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
-with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
-Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
-flush of pride in it.
-
-“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”
-
-He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
-coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
-beside the driver.
-
-When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
-many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
-the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
-the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
-her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
-
-“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
-better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
-
-“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
-throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
-you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
-save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
-love her, bear to see her so?”
-
-He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
-put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
-
-“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
-
-It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
-with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
-him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
-handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
-
-When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
-and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
-
-“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
-be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
-you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
-
-“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
-strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
-answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
-
-“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
-and short, but try.”
-
-“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
-
-“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
-now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
-great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
-it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
-were not.”
-
-“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
-straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
-write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
-one will be accessible until dark.”
-
-“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
-forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
-speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
-these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”
-
-“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
-this.”
-
-“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
-go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
-our friend or from yourself?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“May you prosper!”
-
-Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
-shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
-
-“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
-
-“Nor have I.”
-
-“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
-him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
-to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
-court.”
-
-“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
-
-Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
-
-“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
-Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
-consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
-thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
-
-“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
-But he will perish; there is no real hope.”
-
-“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.
-
-And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-XII. Darkness
-
-
-Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
-Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
-do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
-these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
-precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
-Let me think it out!”
-
-Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
-turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
-in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
-confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
-should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
-towards Saint Antoine.
-
-Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
-the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
-well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
-its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
-at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
-first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
-had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
-dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
-done with it.
-
-It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
-into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
-stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
-the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
-his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.
-
-There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
-restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
-the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
-Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
-a regular member of the establishment.
-
-As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
-French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
-glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
-to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
-
-He repeated what he had already said.
-
-“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
-eyebrows.
-
-After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
-slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
-accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”
-
-Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
-took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
-meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”
-
-Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
-
-“How?”
-
-“Good evening.”
-
-“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
-drink to the Republic.”
-
-Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
- Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
-pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
- The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
-are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
-to-morrow!”
-
-Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
-forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
-their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
-of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
-disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
-their conversation.
-
-“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
-is great force in that. Why stop?”
-
-“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
-the question is still where?”
-
-“At extermination,” said madame.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
-approved.
-
-“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
-troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
-suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
-the paper was read.”
-
-“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
-“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
-face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”
-
-“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
-“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
-
-“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
-his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
-have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
-I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
-finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
-his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
-if the axe had dropped.
-
-“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.
-
-“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
-
-“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
-depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
-man even now.”
-
-“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
-would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”
-
-“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
-too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
-tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
-doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.
-
-“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
-this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
-night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
-by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge.
-
-“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
-burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
-those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
-that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge again.
-
-“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
-hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
-among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
-by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
-family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
-was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
-was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
-those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
-descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.
-
-“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
-tell me.”
-
-Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
-of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
-her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
-a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
-only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
-the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”
-
-Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
-paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
-a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
-took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
-The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
-be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
-deep.
-
-But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
-prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
-himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
-walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
-until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
-keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
-banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
-mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
-more than five hours gone: where could he be?
-
-Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
-he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
-should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
-In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
-
-He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
-did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
-brought none. Where could he be?
-
-They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
-weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
-the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
-lost.
-
-Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
-time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
-them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
-
-“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”
-
-His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
-straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
-
-“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
-can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
-finish those shoes.”
-
-They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
-
-“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
-work. Give me my work.”
-
-Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
-ground, like a distracted child.
-
-“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
-cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
-not done to-night?”
-
-Lost, utterly lost!
-
-It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
-that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
-soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
-have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
-embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
-time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
-the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
-
-Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
-of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
-daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
-too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
-one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
-
-“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
-to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
-me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
-exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”
-
-“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”
-
-The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
-rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
-they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
-night.
-
-Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
-feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
-carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
-took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
-at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
-exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”
-
-“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
-
-“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
-his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
-enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
-an Englishman?”
-
-Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
-
-“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
-remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
-Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
-and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
-frontier! You see?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
-yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
-up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
-within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
-good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
-think, will be.”
-
-“They are not in danger?”
-
-“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
-Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
-woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
-colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
-confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
-is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
-Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
-name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
-the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
-involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
-both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
-will save them all.”
-
-“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”
-
-“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
-on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
-until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
-more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
-mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
-father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
-inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
-strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”
-
-“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
-the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
-of this distress.”
-
-“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
-as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
-completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
-horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
-afternoon.”
-
-“It shall be done!”
-
-His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
-flame, and was as quick as youth.
-
-“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
-Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
-and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
-beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
-on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
-the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
-her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
-depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
-father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
-
-“I am sure of it.”
-
-“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
-the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
-The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
-
-“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”
-
-“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
-reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
-then for England!”
-
-“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
-hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
-and ardent man at my side.”
-
-“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
-influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
-another.”
-
-“Nothing, Carton.”
-
-“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
-any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
-inevitably be sacrificed.”
-
-“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”
-
-“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”
-
-Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
-put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
-helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
-as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
-where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
-to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
-courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
-the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
-it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
-there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
-her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
-Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. Fifty-two
-
-
-In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
-their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
-to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
-everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
-were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
-the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
-apart.
-
-Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
-whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
-poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
-in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
-and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
-intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
-without distinction.
-
-Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
-flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
-of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
-fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
-that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
-avail him nothing.
-
-Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
-before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
-was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
-and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
-when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
-this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
-a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
-resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
-child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
-selfish thing.
-
-But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
-was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
-road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
-him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
-enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
-by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
-thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
-
-Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
-travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
-of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
-prison lamps should be extinguished.
-
-He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
-of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
-and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
-responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
-already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
-he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
-her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
-had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
-for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
-become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
-to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
-that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
-preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
-he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
-mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
-discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
-besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
-her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
-of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
-reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
-sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
-blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
-dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
-father.
-
-To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
-father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
-he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
-despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
-tending.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
-That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
-attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
-full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
-
-He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
-he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
-
-But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
-forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
-nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
-heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
-he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
-suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
-was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
-sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
-flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
-
-Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
-were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
-meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
-thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
-
-He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
-high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
-stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
-red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
-or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
-directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
-times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
-fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
-to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
-few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
-the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
-
-The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
-numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
-ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
-contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
-him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
-repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
-He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
-himself and for them.
-
-Twelve gone for ever.
-
-He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
-be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
-and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
-before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
-interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
-
-Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
-different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
-he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
-measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
-recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
-turned to walk again.
-
-Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
-
-The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
-as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
-me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
-no time!”
-
-The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
-face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
-features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
-
-There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
-first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
-imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
-hand, and it was his real grasp.
-
-“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
-
-“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
-are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”
-
-“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
-here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
-wife, dear Darnay.”
-
-The prisoner wrung his hand.
-
-“I bring you a request from her.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
-in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
-remember.”
-
-The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
-
-“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
-no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
-wear, and draw on these of mine.”
-
-There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
-Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
-him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
-
-“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
-them. Quick!”
-
-“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
-will only die with me. It is madness.”
-
-“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
-to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
-that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
-it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
-this of mine!”
-
-With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
-that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
-The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
-
-“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
-can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
-not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
-
-“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
-refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
-steady enough to write?”
-
-“It was when you came in.”
-
-“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”
-
-Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
-Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
-
-“Write exactly as I speak.”
-
-“To whom do I address it?”
-
-“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.
-
-“Do I date it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
-his hand in his breast, looked down.
-
-“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
-between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
-You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”
-
-He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
-up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
-something.
-
-“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.
-
-“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”
-
-“No; I am not armed.”
-
-“What is it in your hand?”
-
-“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
-dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
-them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
-words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
-moved down close to the writer's face.
-
-The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
-him vacantly.
-
-“What vapour is that?” he asked.
-
-“Vapour?”
-
-“Something that crossed me?”
-
-“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
-and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
-
-As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
-prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
-with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
-hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
-
-“Hurry, hurry!”
-
-The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
-
-“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
-softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
-If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
-should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
-otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
-unintelligible signs.
-
-Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
-with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
-nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
-seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
-life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
-the ground.
-
-Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
-dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
-his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
-softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.
-
-“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
-insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
-great?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
-hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
-the whole of your bargain.”
-
-“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”
-
-“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
-made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”
-
-“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
-rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
-take me to the coach.”
-
-“You?” said the Spy nervously.
-
-“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
-you brought me in?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
-take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
-happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
-Quick! Call assistance!”
-
-“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
-last moment.
-
-“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
-solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
-moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
-him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
-yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
-last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
-
-The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
-forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
-
-“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
-afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
-Sainte Guillotine?”
-
-“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
-if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
-
-They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
-brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
-
-“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.
-
-“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
-you, and leave me.”
-
-“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”
-
-The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
-listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
-suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
-footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
-made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
-sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
-
-Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
-began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
-finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
-saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
-at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
-within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
-the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
-standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
-but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
-fixedly at the ground.
-
-As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
-were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
-as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
-discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
-woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
-no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
-the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
-
-“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
-poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”
-
-He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”
-
-“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
-likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
-like me?”
-
-The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
-started from his eyes.
-
-“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
-am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
-to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
-Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
-
-As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
-warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
-
-“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”
-
-“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
-
-“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
-hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
-more courage.”
-
-As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
-them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
-fingers, and touched his lips.
-
-“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
-
-“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
-
-“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
-
-“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
-
- *****
-
-The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
-same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
-it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
-
-“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
-
-The papers are handed out, and read.
-
-“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
-
-This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
-pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
-Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
-
-Greatly too much for him.
-
-“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
-
-This is she.
-
-“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”
-
-It is.
-
-“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
-This is she?”
-
-She and no other.
-
-“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
-something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
-English. Which is he?”
-
-He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”
-
-It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
-he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
-under the displeasure of the Republic.
-
-“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
-displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
-Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”
-
-“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”
-
-It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
-is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
-door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
-carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
-carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
-the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
-mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
-an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
-
-“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”
-
-“One can depart, citizen?”
-
-“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”
-
-“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”
-
-These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
-looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
-is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
-
-“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
- asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
-
-“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
-it would rouse suspicion.”
-
-“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
-
-“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”
-
-Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
-dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
-trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
-either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
-stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
-sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
-wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
-anything but stopping.
-
-Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
-farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
-avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
-by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
-no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
-the posting-house.
-
-Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
-the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
-of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
-existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
-plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
-their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
-All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
-far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
-
-At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
-behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
-on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
-animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
-haunches. We are pursued?
-
-“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”
-
-“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
-
-“How many did they say?”
-
-“I do not understand you.”
-
-“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”
-
-“Fifty-two.”
-
-“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
-forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
-handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”
-
-The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
-to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
-by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
-us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
-
-The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
-the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
-us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Knitting Done
-
-
-In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
-Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
-Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
-erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
-conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
-was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
-
-“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
-Republican? Eh?”
-
-“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
-notes, “in France.”
-
-“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
-a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
-fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
-well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
-his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”
-
-“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
-with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
-citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
-
-“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
-his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
-me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
-child must follow the husband and father.”
-
-“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
-eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
-them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
-
-Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
-
-“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
-of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
-there. It is a pretty sight!”
-
-“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
-“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
-last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
-but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
-and then they might escape.”
-
-“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
-have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”
-
-“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
-pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
-regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
-therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
-submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
-
-“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
-“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
-this very day?”
-
-“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
-two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
-without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”
-
-He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
-imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
-never seen.
-
-“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”
-
-“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
-eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
-
-“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
-fellow-Jurymen.”
-
-“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
-Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
-I spare him?”
-
-“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
-“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”
-
-“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
-cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
-trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
-bad witness.”
-
-The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
-protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
-witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
-celestial witness.
-
-“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
-him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
-to-day executed.--You?”
-
-The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
-the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
-of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
-Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
-smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
-barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
-suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
-him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
-for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
-
-“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
-over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
-will give information against these people at my Section.”
-
-The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
-citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
-her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
-hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
-
-Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
-the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
-
-“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
-be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
-justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
-I will go to her.”
-
-“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
-Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
-embraced her.
-
-“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
-lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
-me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
-greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
-
-“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
-alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”
-
-“I shall be there before the commencement.”
-
-“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
-The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
-street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
-
-Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
-might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
-mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
-Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
-of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
-
-There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
-disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
-than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
-strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
-determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
-to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
-instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
-heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
-with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
-opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
-pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
-her.
-
-It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
-his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
-his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
-insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
-her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
-hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
-been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
-she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
-been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
-softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
-sent her there.
-
-Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
-worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
-dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
-bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
-dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
-a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
-walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
-sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
-
-Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
-waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
-the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
-attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
-but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
-it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
-escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
-Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
-and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
-three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
-Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
-passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
-advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
-of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
-
-Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
-pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
-beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
-passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
-their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
-taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
-else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
-
-“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
-was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
-“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
-carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
-suspicion.”
-
-“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
-wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
-
-“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
-Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
-_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”
-
-“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
-hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
-mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
-two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
-crisis?”
-
-“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
-them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
-
-“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
-an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
-more will I do it, never no more!”
-
-“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
-never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
-necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
-
-“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
-poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
-Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
-
-“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
-striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
-is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
-superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”
-
-“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
-most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
-be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
-opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
-hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
-time.”
-
-“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
-Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
-
-“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
-additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
-out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
-earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
-flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
-risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
-conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
-
-And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
-nearer and nearer.
-
-“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
-upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
-understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
-you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
-earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
-Cruncher, let us think!”
-
-Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
-and nearer.
-
-“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
-horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
-that be best?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
-
-“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
-Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
-Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
-
-“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
-the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
-towers?”
-
-“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
-straight, and make that change.”
-
-“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
-“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”
-
-“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
-Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
-and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
-of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
-that may depend on both of us!”
-
-This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
-clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
-immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
-to follow as she had proposed.
-
-The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
-execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
-her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
-streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
-minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
-
-Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
-rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
-in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
-which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
-could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
-dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
-was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
-out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
-
-The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
-Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
-those feet had come to meet that water.
-
-Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
-where is she?”
-
-It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
-and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
-four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
-the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
-
-Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
-and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
-about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
-of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
-way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
-
-“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
-Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
-me. I am an Englishwoman.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
-Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
-hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
-woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
-Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
-that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
-
-“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
-her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
-knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
-wish to see her.”
-
-“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
-depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”
-
-Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
-both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
-the unintelligible words meant.
-
-“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
-moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
-Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”
-
-“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
-was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
-you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”
-
-Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
-detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
-at naught.
-
-“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
-answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
-to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
- This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
-
-“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
-understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
-except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
-part of it.”
-
-Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
-Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
-first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
-
-“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
-English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
-greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
-dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
-
-Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
-between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
-Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
-
-But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
-irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
-Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
-laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
-Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
-of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
-answer the Citizeness Defarge!”
-
-Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
-expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
-either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
-Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
-
-“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
-are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
-you! Let me look.”
-
-“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
-Madame Defarge understood the answer.
-
-“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
-brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.
-
-“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
-uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
-know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
-that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”
-
-“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
-I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
-Madame Defarge.
-
-“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
-not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
-while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
-my darling,” said Miss Pross.
-
-Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
-moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
-It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
-with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
-clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
-that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
-face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
-clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
-
-Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
-waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
-shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
-you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
-
-Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
-what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
-alone--blinded with smoke.
-
-All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
-stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
-whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
-
-In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
-body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
-fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
-what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
-go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
-get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
-out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
-away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
-and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
-
-By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
-gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
-was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
-like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
-gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
-dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
-hundred ways.
-
-In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
-at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
-she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
-it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
-discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
-charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
-escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
-
-“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
-question and by her aspect.
-
-“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”
-
-It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
-not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
-all events she'll see that.” And she did.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
-presently.
-
-Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
-
-“I don't hear it.”
-
-“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
-much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
-
-“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
-and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”
-
-“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
-more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
-Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”
-
-“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
-my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
-and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
-broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
-
-“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
-journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
-opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
-
-And indeed she never did.
-
-
-
-
-XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
-tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
-insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
-are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
-France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
-a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
-conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
-humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
-twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
-rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
-the same fruit according to its kind.
-
-Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
-they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
-the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
-toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
-house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
-No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
-of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
-into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
-the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
-form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
- Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
-
-As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
-a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
-are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
-So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
-in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
-hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
-the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
-then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
-curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
-tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
-
-Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
-things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
-a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
-drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
-heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
-they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
-and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
-he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
-drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
-number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
-
-There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
-and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
-question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
-always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
-horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
-their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
-at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
-mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
-no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
-girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
-against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
-shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
-touch his face, his arms being bound.
-
-On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
-the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
-He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
-sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
-
-“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
-
-“That. At the back there.”
-
-“With his hand in the girl's?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
-Down, Evremonde!”
-
-“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
-
-“And why not, citizen?”
-
-“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
-Let him be at peace.”
-
-But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
-Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
-Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
-
-The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
-populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
-end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
-close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
-to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
-public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
-fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
-
-“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
-Defarge!”
-
-“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
-
-“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”
-
-“Louder,” the woman recommends.
-
-Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
-thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
-it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
-lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
-deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
-enough to find her!
-
-“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
-here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
-she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
-her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”
-
-As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
-begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
-robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
-scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
-think and speak, count One.
-
-The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
-the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
-
-The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
-after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
-still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
-crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
-his face and thanks him.
-
-“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
-naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
-able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
-have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
-Heaven.”
-
-“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
-and mind no other object.”
-
-“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
-it go, if they are rapid.”
-
-“They will be rapid. Fear not!”
-
-The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
-if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
-heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
-and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
-together, and to rest in her bosom.
-
-“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
-am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”
-
-“Tell me what it is.”
-
-“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
-love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
-farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
-nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
-tell her! It is better as it is.”
-
-“Yes, yes: better as it is.”
-
-“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
-thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
-much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
-and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
-live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
-
-“What then, my gentle sister?”
-
-“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
-endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
-“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
-where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”
-
-“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”
-
-“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
-moment come?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
-The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
-a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
-him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
-
-“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me shall never die.”
-
-The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
-on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
-forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
-Twenty-Three.
-
- *****
-
-They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
-peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
-sublime and prophetic.
-
-One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
-at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
-write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
-utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
-
-“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
-long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
-the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
-out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
-rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
-their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
-of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
-birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
-
-“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
-prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
-Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
-aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
-healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
-friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
-tranquilly to his reward.
-
-“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
-their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
-for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
-course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
-that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
-than I was in the souls of both.
-
-“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
-winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
-winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
-light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
-fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
-with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
-look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
-tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
-
-“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
-far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: A Tale of Two Cities
- A Story of the French Revolution
-
-Author: Charles Dickens
-
-Release Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]
-Posting Date: November 28, 2009
-Last Updated: March 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Judith Boss
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-A TALE OF TWO CITIES
-
-A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
-
-By Charles Dickens
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
- Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
- Chapter I The Period
- Chapter II The Mail
- Chapter III The Night Shadows
- Chapter IV The Preparation
- Chapter V The Wine-shop
- Chapter VI The Shoemaker
-
-
- Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
- Chapter I Five Years Later
- Chapter II A Sight
- Chapter III A Disappointment
- Chapter IV Congratulatory
- Chapter V The Jackal
- Chapter VI Hundreds of People
- Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town
- Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country
- Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head
- Chapter X Two Promises
- Chapter XI A Companion Picture
- Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy
- Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy
- Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman
- Chapter XV Knitting
- Chapter XVI Still Knitting
- Chapter XVII One Night
- Chapter XVIII Nine Days
- Chapter XIX An Opinion
- Chapter XX A Plea
- Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps
- Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises
- Chapter XXIII Fire Rises
- Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
- Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
- Chapter I In Secret
- Chapter II The Grindstone
- Chapter III The Shadow
- Chapter IV Calm in Storm
- Chapter V The Wood-sawyer
- Chapter VI Triumph
- Chapter VII A Knock at the Door
- Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards
- Chapter IX The Game Made
- Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow
- Chapter XI Dusk
- Chapter XII Darkness
- Chapter XIII Fifty-two
- Chapter XIV The Knitting Done
- Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
-
-
-
-I. The Period
-
-
-It was the best of times,
-it was the worst of times,
-it was the age of wisdom,
-it was the age of foolishness,
-it was the epoch of belief,
-it was the epoch of incredulity,
-it was the season of Light,
-it was the season of Darkness,
-it was the spring of hope,
-it was the winter of despair,
-we had everything before us,
-we had nothing before us,
-we were all going direct to Heaven,
-we were all going direct the other way--
-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
-its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
-evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-
-There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
-throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
-a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
-than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
-that things in general were settled for ever.
-
-It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
-as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
-blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
-heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
-made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
-ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
-messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
-deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
-earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
-from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
-to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
-communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
-brood.
-
-France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
-sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
-hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
-Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
-achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
-torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
-kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
-which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
-yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
-Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
-already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
-boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
-it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
-of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
-sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
-rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
-the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
-the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
-unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
-with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
-that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
-
-In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
-justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
-highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
-families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
-their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
-in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
-challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
-“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
-mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
-then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
-failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
-that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
-and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
-illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
-gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
-fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
-thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
-Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
-for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
-musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
-much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
-and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
-up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
-Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
-hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
-Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
-and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
-sixpence.
-
-All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
-upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
-those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
-fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
-with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
-and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
-creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
-roads that lay before them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Mail
-
-
-It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
-before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
-The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
-Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
-as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
-for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
-and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
-horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
-coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
-to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
-combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
-otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
-are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
-their duty.
-
-With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
-the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
-falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
-them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
-near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
-unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
-hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
-nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
-
-There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
-forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
-none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
-air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
-waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
-everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
-and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
-into it, as if they had made it all.
-
-Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
-side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
-ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
-anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
-hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
-the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
-were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
-the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
-when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
-“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
-non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
-of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
-thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
-he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
-and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
-loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
-deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
-
-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
-the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
-all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
-the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
-taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
-journey.
-
-“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
-top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
-it!--Joe!”
-
-“Halloa!” the guard replied.
-
-“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”
-
-“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
-
-“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
-yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
-
-The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
-made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
-suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
-passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
-stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
-had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
-into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
-getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
-
-The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
-stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
-the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
-
-“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
-box.
-
-“What do you say, Tom?”
-
-They both listened.
-
-“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”
-
-“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
-of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
-name, all of you!”
-
-With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
-the offensive.
-
-The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
-the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
-remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
-in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
-and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
-back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
-his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
-
-The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
-of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
-indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
-the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
-passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
-quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
-the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
-
-The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
-
-“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
-I shall fire!”
-
-The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
-a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”
-
-“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Why do you want to know?”
-
-“I want a passenger, if it is.”
-
-“What passenger?”
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”
-
-Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
-the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
-
-“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
-“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
-your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”
-
-“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
-speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”
-
-(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
-himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)
-
-“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“What is the matter?”
-
-“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”
-
-“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
-road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
-passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
-pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
-
-“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
-guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”
-
-“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
-
-“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
-saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
-at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
-now let's look at you.”
-
-The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
-and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
-stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
-a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
-rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
-the man.
-
-“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
-
-The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
-blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
-answered curtly, “Sir.”
-
-“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
-know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
-to drink. I may read this?”
-
-“If so be as you're quick, sir.”
-
-He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
-read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
-It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
-TO LIFE.”
-
-Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
- said he, at his hoarsest.
-
-“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
-well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”
-
-With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
-all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
-their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
-pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
-the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
-
-The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
-it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
-in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
-having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
-looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
-few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
-furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
-and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
-himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
-and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
-five minutes.
-
-“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.
-
-“Hallo, Joe.”
-
-“Did you hear the message?”
-
-“I did, Joe.”
-
-“What did you make of it, Tom?”
-
-“Nothing at all, Joe.”
-
-“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
-myself.”
-
-Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
-only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
-shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
-holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
-heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
-hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
-hill.
-
-“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
-fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
-glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
-message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
-be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
-Jerry!”
-
-
-
-
-III. The Night Shadows
-
-
-A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
-constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
-solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
-one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
-room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
-heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
-its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
-awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
-turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
-to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
-water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
-of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
-book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
-but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
-eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
-in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
-my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
-consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
-individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
-any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
-a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
-innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
-
-As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
-messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
-first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
-three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
-coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
-been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
-breadth of a county between him and the next.
-
-The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
-ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
-own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
-assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
-no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
-were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
-far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
-a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
-throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
-for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
-poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
-muffled again.
-
-“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
-“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
-suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
-been a drinking!”
-
-His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
-times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
-which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
-over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
-so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
-wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
-have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
-
-While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
-watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
-was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
-night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
-shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
-They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
-
-What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
-its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
-likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
-their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
-
-Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
-passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
-lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
-and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
-jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
-coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
-bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
-stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
-and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
-all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
-the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
-stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
-little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
-them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
-safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
-
-But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
-(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
-always with him, there was another current of impression that never
-ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
-out of a grave.
-
-Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
-was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
-not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
-years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
-and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
-defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
-so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
-and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
-prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
-spectre:
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-“You know that you are recalled to life?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”
-
-The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
-the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
- Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
-“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
-was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”
-
-After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
-and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
-hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
-hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
-passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
-reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
-
-Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
-patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
-by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
-of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
-real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
-sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
-of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
-it again.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
-passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
-securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
-slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
-slid away into the bank and the grave.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
-his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
-passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
-shadows of the night were gone.
-
-He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
-ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
-last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
-in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
-upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
-and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
-
-“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
-Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
-
-
-
-
-IV. The Preparation
-
-
-When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
-the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
-custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
-from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
-traveller upon.
-
-By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
-congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
-roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
-and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
-like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
-of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
-muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
-
-“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
-
-“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
-tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
-sir?”
-
-“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”
-
-“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
-Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
-gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
-Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”
-
-The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
-mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
-head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
-Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
-all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
-drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
-loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
-and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
-brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
-square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
-his breakfast.
-
-The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
-in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
-with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
-that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
-
-Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
-loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
-as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
-evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
-of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
-fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
-wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
-head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
-looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
-His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
-was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
-beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
-face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
-quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
-their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
-reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
-cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
-But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
-principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
-second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
-
-Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
-Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
-and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
-
-“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
-time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
-gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
-their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
-vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”
-
-“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
-sir?”
-
-“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
-from France.”
-
-“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
-time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
-Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
-years ago?”
-
-“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
-the truth.”
-
-“Indeed, sir!”
-
-Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
-table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
-dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
-he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
-immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
-
-When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
-the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
-from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
-ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
-wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
-destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
-brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
-a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
-dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
-fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
-night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
-made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
-sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
-that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
-
-As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
-at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
-again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
-too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
-his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
-digging, digging, in the live red coals.
-
-A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
-harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
-Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
-glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
-ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
-got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
-street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
-
-He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.
-
-In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
-had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
-Tellson's.
-
-“So soon?”
-
-Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
-then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
-immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
-
-The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
-glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
-wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
-It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
-horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
-oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
-were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
-graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
-from them until they were dug out.
-
-The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
-way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
-the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
-candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
-the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
-and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
-his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
-hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
-a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
-it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
-not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
-fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
-eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
-of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
-Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
-high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
-the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
-procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
-offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
-feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
-
-“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
-little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
-
-“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
-date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
-
-“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
-some intelligence--or discovery--”
-
-“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
-
-“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
-long dead--”
-
-Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
-hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
-anybody in their absurd baskets!
-
-“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
-with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
-the purpose.”
-
-“Myself.”
-
-“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”
-
-She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
-pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
-was than she. He made her another bow.
-
-“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
-those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
-France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
-me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
-during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
-gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
-beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
-
-“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
-be more happy to execute it.”
-
-“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
-by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
-business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
-nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
-strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
-
-“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”
-
-After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
-ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”
-
-He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
-forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
-and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
-as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
-shadow.
-
-“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
-
-“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
-an argumentative smile.
-
-Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
-which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
-deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
-she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
-moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
-
-“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
-as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”
-
-“If you please, sir.”
-
-“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
-acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
-if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
-your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
-
-“Story!”
-
-He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
-in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
-our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
-gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”
-
-“Not of Beauvais?”
-
-“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
-Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
-time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”
-
-“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”
-
-“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
-I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
-French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
-In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
-scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
-there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
-sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
-business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
-the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
-machine. To go on--”
-
-“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
-curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
-left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
-it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
-to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
-conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
-the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
-his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
-down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
-
-“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
-just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
-with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
-that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
-Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
-Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
-of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
-Mangle.”
-
-After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
-flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
-unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
-before), and resumed his former attitude.
-
-“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
-regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
-when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”
-
-She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
-
-“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
-the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
-him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
-business. As I was saying--”
-
-Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
-
-“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
-and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
-been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
-trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
-privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
-to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
-privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
-to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
-implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
-him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
-been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”
-
-“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
-
-“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”
-
-“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
-moment.”
-
-“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
-his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
-Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
-if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
-had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
-born--”
-
-“The little child was a daughter, sir.”
-
-“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
-poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
-that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
-inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
-rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
-Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
-
-“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
-
-“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
-business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
-mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
-shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
-much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
-
-Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
-very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
-his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
-communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
-
-“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
-you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
-you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
-her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
-to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
-upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
-heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
-
-As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
-flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
-been already tinged with grey.
-
-“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
-they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
-discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
-
-He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
-forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
-now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
-
-“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
-probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
-Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
-in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
-restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
-
-A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
-low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
-
-“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”
-
-Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
-there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
-You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
-sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
-
-She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
-have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
-
-“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
-wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
-another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
-worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
-know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
-held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
-because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
-anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
-events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
-Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
-the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
-to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
-and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
-which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
-word! Miss Manette!”
-
-Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
-sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
-upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
-branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
-feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
-out loudly for assistance without moving.
-
-A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
-be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
-extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
-wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
-or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
-inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
-poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
-flying back against the nearest wall.
-
-(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
-reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
-
-“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
-“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
-at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
-things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
-water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”
-
-There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
-softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
-gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
-golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
-
-“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
-“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
-to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
-you call _that_ being a Banker?”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
-answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
-sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
-servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
-not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
-regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
-upon her shoulder.
-
-“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
-
-“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
-humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”
-
-“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
-intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
-would have cast my lot in an island?”
-
-This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
-consider it.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wine-shop
-
-
-A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
-accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
-out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
-outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
-
-All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
-idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
-stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
-thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
-had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
-jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
-made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
-women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
-run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
-the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
-handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
-mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
-others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
-there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
-directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
-pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
-fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
-wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
-along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
-if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
-presence.
-
-A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
-and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
-was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
-special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
-of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
-luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
-shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
-together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
-most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
-demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
-had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
-motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
-hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
-starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
-with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
-the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
-gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
-
-The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
-in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
-stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
-wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
-on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
-stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
-Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
-tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
-head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
-upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
-
-The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
-street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
-
-And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
-gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
-heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
-waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
-but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
-terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
-fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
-passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
-in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
-had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
-children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
-grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
-was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
-of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
-lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
-paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
-firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
-chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
-among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
-baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
-bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
-was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
-chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
-farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
-drops of oil.
-
-Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
-street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
-diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
-and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
-that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
-wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
-slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
-compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
-into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
-inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
-were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
-painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
-meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
-croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
-gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
-flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
-and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
-gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
-with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
-broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
-the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
-rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
-the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
-pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
-and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
-manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
-the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
-
-For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
-should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
-long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
-up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
-condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
-France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
-song and feather, took no warning.
-
-The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
-appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
-it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
-for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
-of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
-another.”
-
-There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
-he called to him across the way:
-
-“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
-
-The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
-the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
-often the way with his tribe too.
-
-“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
-keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
-mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
-in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
-to write such words in?”
-
-In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
-perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
-own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
-attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
-hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
-practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
-
-“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
-there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
-dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
-his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
-
-This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
-and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
-bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
-His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
-the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
-crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
-eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
-the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
-resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
-down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
-the man.
-
-Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
-came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
-a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
-heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
-manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
-have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
-in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
-sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
-shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
-earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
-her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
-by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
-coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
-of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
-line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
-shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
-he stepped over the way.
-
-The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
-rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
-a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
-dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
-of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
-elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”
-
-“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
-to himself; “I don't know you.”
-
-But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
-with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
-all the spilt wine swallowed?”
-
-“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
-
-When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
-picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
-and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
-Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
-of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
-
-“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
-
-At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
-using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
-cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
-drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
-
-“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
-always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
-right, Jacques?”
-
-“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
-when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
-slightly rustled in her seat.
-
-“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”
-
-The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
-flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
-giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
-wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
-of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
-upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
-wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
-fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
-close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
-my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
-there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
-
-They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
-Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
-gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
-
-“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
-the door.
-
-Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
-word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
-not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
-beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
-knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
-
-Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
-joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
-company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
-and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
-by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
-gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
-to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
-a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
-transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
-in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
-angry, dangerous man.
-
-“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
- Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
-ascending the stairs.
-
-“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
-
-“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
-same low voice.
-
-“Is he always alone, then?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Of his own desire?”
-
-“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
-found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
-discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
-
-“He is greatly changed?”
-
-“Changed!”
-
-The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
-and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
-forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
-two companions ascended higher and higher.
-
-Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
-parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
-indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
-within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
-the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
-staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
-flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
-hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
-the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
-intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
-insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
-and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
-his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
-Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
-at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
-uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
-to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
-caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
-or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
-promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
-
-At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
-third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
-and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
-was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
-advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
-dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
-here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
-his shoulder, took out a key.
-
-“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
-
-“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
-
-“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
-closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
-frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
-harm--if his door was left open.”
-
-“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
-world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
-are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
-that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
-
-This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
-of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
-under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
-and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
-on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
-
-“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
-moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
-all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
-bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
-That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
-
-They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
-soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
-once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
-the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
-the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
-footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
-themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
-wine-shop.
-
-“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
-Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
-
-The three glided by, and went silently down.
-
-There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
-the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
-Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
-
-“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
-
-“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
-
-“Is that well?”
-
-“_I_ think it is well.”
-
-“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
-
-“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
-sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
-thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
-
-With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
-through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
-twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
-make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
-three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
-it as heavily as he could.
-
-The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
-room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
-than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
-
-He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
-got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
-felt that she was sinking.
-
-“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
-business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
-
-“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
-
-“Of it? What?”
-
-“I mean of him. Of my father.”
-
-Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
-their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
-shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
-down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
-
-Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
-took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
-methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
-could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
-where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
-
-The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
-and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
-roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
-the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
-other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
-door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
-Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
-was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
-alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
-requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
-done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
-towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
-him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
-busy, making shoes.
-
-
-
-
-VI. The Shoemaker
-
-
-“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
-bent low over the shoemaking.
-
-It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
-salutation, as if it were at a distance:
-
-“Good day!”
-
-“You are still hard at work, I see?”
-
-After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
-voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
-had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
-
-The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
-faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
-doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
-the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
-of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
-resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
-beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
-suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
-it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
-wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
-home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
-
-Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
-up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
-perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
-aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
-
-“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
-“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”
-
-The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
-at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
-other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“You can bear a little more light?”
-
-“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
-stress upon the second word.)
-
-The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
-angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
-showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
-labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
-feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
-long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
-thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
-dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
-otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
-His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
-to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
-stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
-from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
-parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
-
-He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
-of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
-pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
-first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
-lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
-first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
-
-“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
-motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
-
-“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”
-
-But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
-
-Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
-he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
-looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
-unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
-it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
-the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
-look and the action had occupied but an instant.
-
-“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Here is a visitor.”
-
-The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
-work.
-
-“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
-he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
-
-“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
-
-There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
-
-“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”
-
-“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
-information?”
-
-“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
-present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
-glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
-
-“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.
-
-Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
-in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
-hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
-so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
-recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
-had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
-endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
-fast-dying man.
-
-“Did you ask me for my name?”
-
-“Assuredly I did.”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
-again, until the silence was again broken.
-
-“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
-at him.
-
-His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
-question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
-on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
-
-“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
-learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”
-
-He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
-hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
-from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
-resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
-subject of last night.
-
-“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
-a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”
-
-As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
-Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
-
-“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
-
-The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
-questioner.
-
-“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
-remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
-banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
-mind, Monsieur Manette?”
-
-As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
-Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
-intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
-through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
-again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
-so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
-had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
-she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
-raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
-shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
-trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
-breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
-repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
-looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
-
-Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
-less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
-and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
-took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
-
-“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.
-
-“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
-unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
-well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”
-
-She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
-which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
-figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
-over his labour.
-
-Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
-beside him, and he bent over his work.
-
-It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
-in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
-which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
-stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
-raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
-but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
-striking at her with the knife, though they had.
-
-He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
-to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
-the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
-
-“What is this?”
-
-With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
-lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
-laid his ruined head there.
-
-“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”
-
-She sighed “No.”
-
-“Who are you?”
-
-Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
-beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
-thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
-laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
-
-Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
-aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
-little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
-he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
-shoemaking.
-
-But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
-shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
-be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
-to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
-attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
-a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
-hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
-
-He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
-the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”
-
-As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
-become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
-light, and looked at her.
-
-“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
-out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
-brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
-leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
-may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
-well.”
-
-He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
-But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
-though slowly.
-
-“How was this?--_Was it you_?”
-
-Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
-frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
-said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
-us, do not speak, do not move!”
-
-“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”
-
-His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
-hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
-shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
-tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
-gloomily shook his head.
-
-“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
-prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
-she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
-was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
-name, my gentle angel?”
-
-Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
-before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
-
-“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
-and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
-cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
-tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
-me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”
-
-His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
-lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
-
-“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
-is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
-sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
-touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
-breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
-I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
-with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
-remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
-weep for it, weep for it!”
-
-She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
-child.
-
-“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
-have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
-peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
-and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
-if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
-and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
-honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
-striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
-my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
-for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
-tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
-God for us, thank God!”
-
-He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
-touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
-had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
-
-When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
-breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
-storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
-called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
-daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
-there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
-head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
-him from the light.
-
-“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
-he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
-arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
-could be taken away--”
-
-“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
-him.”
-
-“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
-than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
-Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”
-
-“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
-methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”
-
-“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
-composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
-now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
-interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
-as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
-you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
-
-Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
-in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
-and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
-for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
-dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
-to do it.
-
-Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
-hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
-deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
-through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
-had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
-meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
-lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
-garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
-assisted him to his feet.
-
-No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
-the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
-whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
-he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
-tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
-answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
-the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
-occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
-in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
-daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
-
-In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
-ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
-and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
-his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
-in both his own.
-
-They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
-Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
-of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
-round at the walls.
-
-“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
-she had repeated it.
-
-“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”
-
-That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
-prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
-evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
-him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
-tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
-no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
-dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
-
-No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
-many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
-silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
-that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
-saw nothing.
-
-The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
-him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
-miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
-Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
-went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
-brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
-against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
-
-Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
-postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
-over-swinging lamps.
-
-Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
-streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
-illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
-gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
-travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
-getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
-monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
-him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
-military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
-in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
-or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
-Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
-grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
-grove of stars.
-
-Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
-this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
-rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
-is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
-All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
-whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
-man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
-lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:
-
-“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”
-
-And the old answer:
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-
-The end of the first book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
-
-
-
-I. Five Years Later
-
-
-Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
-year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
-dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
-moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
-proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
-proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
-in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
-it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
-no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
-convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
-no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
-embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
-Tellson's, thank Heaven--!
-
-Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
-question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
-on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
-suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
-objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
-
-Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
-of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
-a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
-and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
-counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
-wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
-windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
-and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
-heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
-“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
-where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
-hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
-twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
-drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
-they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
-were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
-the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
-polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
-made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
-parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
-papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
-dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
-one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
-by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
-from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
-exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
-Abyssinia or Ashantee.
-
-But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
-with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
-Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
-Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
-was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
-purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
-of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
-Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
-three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
-Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
-might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
-reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
-particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
-after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
-its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
-low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
-disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
-ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
-
-Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
-oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
-man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
-old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
-Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
-be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
-and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
-
-Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
-odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
-sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
-upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
-of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
-in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
-tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
-this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
-occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
-easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
-appellation of Jerry.
-
-The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
-Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
-morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
-always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
-the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
-popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
-
-Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
-but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
-might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
-it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
-already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
-for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
-was spread.
-
-Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
-at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
-and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
-looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
-exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
-
-“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
-
-A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
-corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
-person referred to.
-
-“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
-agin, are you?”
-
-After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
-the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
-odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
-whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
-often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
-
-“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
-mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”
-
-“I was only saying my prayers.”
-
-“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
-yourself down and praying agin me?”
-
-“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”
-
-“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
-your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
-father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
-You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
-herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
-of the mouth of her only child.”
-
-Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
-to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
-board.
-
-“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
-unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
-Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”
-
-“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
-that.”
-
-“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
-much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
-afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
-you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
-child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
-wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
-have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
-countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
-B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
-on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
-another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
-devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
-boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
-then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
-tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
-in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
-laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
-it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
-I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
-been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
-it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
-say now!”
-
-Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
-You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
-and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
-from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
-himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
-In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
-and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
-kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
-woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
-his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
---Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
-again with an undutiful grin.
-
-Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
-breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
-animosity.
-
-“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”
-
-His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
-
-“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
-to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
-ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
-blest off my table. Keep still!”
-
-Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
-which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
-his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
-inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
-aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
-he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
-of the day.
-
-It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
-description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
-a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
-young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
-beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
-with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
-from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
-feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
-Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
-itself,--and was almost as in-looking.
-
-Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
-three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
-Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
-standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
-inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
-boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
-extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
-in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
-eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
-The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
-the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
-youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
-in Fleet-street.
-
-The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
-establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
-
-“Porter wanted!”
-
-“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”
-
-Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
-the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
-had been chewing, and cogitated.
-
-“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
-“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
-rust here!”
-
-
-
-
-II. A Sight
-
-
-“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
-clerks to Jerry the messenger.
-
-“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
-know the Bailey.”
-
-“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
-better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
-in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”
-
-“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
-door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”
-
-“Into the court, sir?”
-
-“Into the court.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
-interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”
-
-“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
-conference.
-
-“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
-Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
-attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
-to remain there until he wants you.”
-
-“Is that all, sir?”
-
-“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
-you are there.”
-
-As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
-Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
-blotting-paper stage, remarked:
-
-“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”
-
-“Treason!”
-
-“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”
-
-“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
-spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”
-
-“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
-him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
-
-“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
-care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
-care of itself. I give you that advice.”
-
-“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
-leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
-
-“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
-gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
-ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”
-
-Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
-deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
-too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
-and went his way.
-
-They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
-not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
-But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
-villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
-into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
-dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
-had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
-his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
-For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
-from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
-a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
-half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
-So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
-was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
-a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
-the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
-softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
-blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
-leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
-under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
-illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
-that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
-consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
-
-Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
-hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
-way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
-his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
-at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
-former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
-doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
-criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
-
-After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
-very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
-court.
-
-“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
-to.
-
-“Nothing yet.”
-
-“What's coming on?”
-
-“The Treason case.”
-
-“The quartering one, eh?”
-
-“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
-be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
-face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
-and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
-That's the sentence.”
-
-“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.
-
-“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
-that.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
-saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
-sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
-gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
-before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
-in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
-then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
-court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
-with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
-to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
-
-“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
-
-“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.
-
-“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
-
-“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.
-
-The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
-central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
-went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
-
-Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
-ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
-at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
-pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
-stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
-laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
-themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
-upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
-Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
-of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
-whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
-the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
-that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
-in an impure mist and rain.
-
-The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
-five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
-a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
-dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
-dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
-of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
-itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
-situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
-soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
-bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
-
-The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
-was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
-horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
-details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
-fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
-was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
-and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
-spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
-powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
-
-Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
-an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
-he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
-forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
-occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
-King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
-so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
-our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
-said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
-evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
-said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
-to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
-becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
-huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
-the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
-there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
-that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
-
-The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
-beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
-the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
-attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
-and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
-composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
-it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
-vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
-
-Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
-upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
-it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
-in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
-glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
-day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
-for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
-that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
-of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
-face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
-
-It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
-which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
-in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
-immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
-aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
-
-The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
-twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
-remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
-and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
-but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
-looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
-it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
-handsome man, not past the prime of life.
-
-His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
-him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
-dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
-been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
-that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
-noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
-had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
-“Who are they?”
-
-Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
-manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
-absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
-him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
-from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
-to Jerry:
-
-“Witnesses.”
-
-“For which side?”
-
-“Against.”
-
-“Against what side?”
-
-“The prisoner's.”
-
-The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
-leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
-in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
-axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
-
-
-
-
-III. A Disappointment
-
-
-Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
-them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
-claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
-public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
-even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
-prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
-repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
-he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
-traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
-wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
-That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
-was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
-prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
-Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
-That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
-attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
-friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
-infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
-in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
-were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
-benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
-they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
-as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
-knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
-whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
-they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
-especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
-That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
-for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
-communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
-a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
-and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
-hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
-in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
-brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
-Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
-on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
-witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
-produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
-his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
-sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
-such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
-proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
-same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
-showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
-would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
-in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
-very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
-That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
-were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
-positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
-they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
-pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
-their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
-of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
-there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
-pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
-Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
-everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
-of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
-good as dead and gone.
-
-When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
-a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
-anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
-unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
-
-Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
-patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
-exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
-it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
-of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
-wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
-Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
-opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
-
-Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
-What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
-precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
-Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
-distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
-prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
-prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
-times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
-been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
-Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
-downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
-dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
-committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
-Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
-more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
-Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
-very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
-No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
-about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
-Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
-pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
-no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
-patriotism? None whatever.
-
-The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
-great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
-simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
-packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
-He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
-charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
-the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
-his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
-prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
-the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
-had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
-at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
-Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
-information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
-he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
-only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
-that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
-coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
-curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
-was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
-
-The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry.
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
-seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
-Dover by the mail?”
-
-“It did.”
-
-“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
-
-“Two.”
-
-“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
-
-“They did.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”
-
-“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
-
-“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
-
-“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
-reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
-those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
-render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”
-
-“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
-myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
-air.”
-
-“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“I certainly have seen that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
-certain knowledge, before?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
-prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
-voyage with me.”
-
-“At what hour did he come on board?”
-
-“At a little after midnight.”
-
-“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
-at that untimely hour?”
-
-“He happened to be the only one.”
-
-“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
-came on board in the dead of the night?”
-
-“He was.”
-
-“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
-
-“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
-
-“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
-
-“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
-I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
-
-“Miss Manette!”
-
-The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
-turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
-kept her hand drawn through his arm.
-
-“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
-
-To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
-far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
-Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
-the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
-to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
-before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
-to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
-rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
-
-“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Where?”
-
-“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
-occasion.”
-
-“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
-
-“O! most unhappily, I am!”
-
-The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
-of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
-to you, and make no remark upon them.”
-
-“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
-passage across the Channel?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Recall it.”
-
-In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
-gentleman came on board--”
-
-“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
-
-“Yes, my Lord.”
-
-“Then say the prisoner.”
-
-“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
-her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
-and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
-afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
-deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
-care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
-The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
-shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
-had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
-set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
-great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
-felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
-
-“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“How many were with him?”
-
-“Two French gentlemen.”
-
-“Had they conferred together?”
-
-“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
-necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”
-
-“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”
-
-“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
-papers.”
-
-“Like these in shape and size?”
-
-“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
-near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
-light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
-spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
-they looked at papers.”
-
-“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”
-
-“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
-of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
-father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
-harm to-day.”
-
-Buzzing from the blue-flies.
-
-“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
-you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
-give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
-he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”
-
-“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
-difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
-therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
-had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
-take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
-time to come.”
-
-“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”
-
-“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
-that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
-England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
-Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
-Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
-laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
-
-Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
-a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
-unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
-anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
-she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
-the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
-expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
-of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
-when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
-heresy about George Washington.
-
-Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
-necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
-father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
-
-“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
-
-“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
-three years and a half ago.”
-
-“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
-speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
-
-“Sir, I can do neither.”
-
-“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
-either?”
-
-He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
-
-“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
-trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”
-
-He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”
-
-“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
-
-“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
-time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
-time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
-here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
-my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
-familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
-
-Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
-together.
-
-A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
-to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
-in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
-got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
-not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
-to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
-was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
-in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
-waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
-this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
-on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
-been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
-little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
-this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
-attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
-
-“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
-
-The witness was quite sure.
-
-“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
-
-Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
-
-“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
-to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
-prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”
-
-Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
-if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
-not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
-into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
-his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
-much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
-counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
-friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
-would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
-happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
-this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
-confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
-this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
-useless lumber.
-
-Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
-fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
-Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
-of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
-traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
-scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
-rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
-and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
-swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
-affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
-those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
-consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
-even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
-and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
-had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
-gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
-and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
-reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
-impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
-How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
-attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
-and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
-how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
-character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
-State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
-(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
-not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
-
-Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
-attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
-Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
-Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
-prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
-the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
-decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
-
-And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
-
-Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
-changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
-While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
-whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
-anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
-grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
-and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
-in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
-sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
-on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
-hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
-day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
-a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
-undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
-when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
-lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
-hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
-observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
-that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
-to get any, do he?”
-
-Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
-appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
-her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
-“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
-Don't you see she will fall!”
-
-There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
-sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
-him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
-strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
-brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
-ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
-moment, spoke, through their foreman.
-
-They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
-Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
-but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
-and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
-the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
-jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
-refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
-down.
-
-Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
-now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
-could easily get near him.
-
-“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
-way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
-behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
-are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
-before I can.”
-
-Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
-acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
-at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
-
-“How is the young lady?”
-
-“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
-feels the better for being out of court.”
-
-“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
-like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
-in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
-The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
-eyes, ears, and spikes.
-
-“Mr. Darnay!”
-
-The prisoner came forward directly.
-
-“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
-will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”
-
-“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
-for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
-
-“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
-
-Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
-half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
-
-“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
-
-“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
-Mr. Darnay?”
-
-“The worst.”
-
-“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
-withdrawing is in your favour.”
-
-Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
-more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
-in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
-them.
-
-An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
-passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
-The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
-refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
-of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
-with them.
-
-“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
-there.
-
-“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
-
-Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
-it?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
-
-“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
-Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”
-
-He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
-until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
-with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
-swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
-search of other carrion.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Congratulatory
-
-
-From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
-human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
-Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
-for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
-Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
-death.
-
-It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
-in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
-shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
-twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
-had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
-to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
-reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
-lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
-from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
-itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
-unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
-Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
-hundred miles away.
-
-Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
-his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
-misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
-the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
-influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
-recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
-and slight, and she believed them over.
-
-Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
-to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
-more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
-loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
-way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
-conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
-
-He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
-late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
-out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
-Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
-less likely to succeed on that account.”
-
-“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
- said his late client, taking his hand.
-
-“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
-another man's, I believe.”
-
-It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
-said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
-object of squeezing himself back again.
-
-“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
-and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
-
-“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
-now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
-him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
-this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
-Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”
-
-“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
-do yet. Speak for yourself.”
-
-“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
-Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
- He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
-
-His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
-Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
-not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
-thoughts had wandered away.
-
-“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
-
-He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
-
-“Shall we go home, my father?”
-
-With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”
-
-The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
-impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
-released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
-passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
-and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
-gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
-Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
-the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
-departed in it.
-
-Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
-to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
-interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
-against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
-out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
-stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
-
-“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”
-
-Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
-proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
-better for it in appearance.
-
-“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
-business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
-appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
-sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
-have to think of the House more than ourselves.”
-
-“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
-nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
-I dare say.”
-
-“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
-know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
-much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
-business.”
-
-“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“It is a pity you have not, sir.”
-
-“I think so, too.”
-
-“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”
-
-“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
-“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
-if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
-Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
-for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
-I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
-life.--Chair there!”
-
-Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
-Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
-who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
-then, and turned to Darnay:
-
-“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
-be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
-these street stones?”
-
-“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
-again.”
-
-“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
-advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”
-
-“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”
-
-“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
-numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
-some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”
-
-Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
-Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
-shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
-his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
-opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
-before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
-
-“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
-Darnay?”
-
-“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
-mended as to feel that.”
-
-“It must be an immense satisfaction!”
-
-He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
-one.
-
-“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
-It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
-are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
-not much alike in any particular, you and I.”
-
-Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
-this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
-at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
-
-“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
-health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”
-
-“What health? What toast?”
-
-“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
-swear it's there.”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
-flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
-pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
- he said, filling his new goblet.
-
-A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
-feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
-sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”
-
-Again Darnay answered not a word.
-
-“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
-that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”
-
-The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
-disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
-strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
-for it.
-
-“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
-“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
-it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”
-
-“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”
-
-“Do you think I particularly like you?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
-not asked myself the question.”
-
-“But ask yourself the question now.”
-
-“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”
-
-“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
-opinion of your understanding.”
-
-“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
-nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
-parting without ill-blood on either side.”
-
-Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
-reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
-bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
-ten.”
-
-The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
-Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
-of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
-I am drunk?”
-
-“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
-
-“Since I must say so, I know it.”
-
-“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
-care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
-
-“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
-
-“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
-however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”
-
-When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
-glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
-
-“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
-should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
-in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
-made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
-what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
-places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
-he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
-have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
-
-He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
-minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
-table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Jackal
-
-
-Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
-the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
-statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
-in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
-perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
-The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
-learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
-Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
-practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
-drier parts of the legal race.
-
-A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
-begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
-he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
-specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
-visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
-florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
-the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
-among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
-
-It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
-man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
-faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
-among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
-But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
-business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
-pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
-Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
-
-Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
-ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
-might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
-anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
-at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
-they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
-rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
-to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
-among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
-would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
-rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
-wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“_What's_ the matter?”
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”
-
-“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
-
-“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
-
-After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
-dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
-he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
-and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
-Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
-
-The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
-home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
-and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
-had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
-may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
-Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
-Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
-
-“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.
-
-“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”
-
-They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
-where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
-the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
-it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
-
-“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”
-
-“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
-seeing him dine--it's all one!”
-
-“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
-identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”
-
-“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
-been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”
-
-Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
-
-“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”
-
-Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
-room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
-or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
-out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
-at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”
-
-“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
-gaily, as he looked among his papers.
-
-“How much?”
-
-“Only two sets of them.”
-
-“Give me the worst first.”
-
-“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
-
-The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
-drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
-proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
-his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
-a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
-his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
-lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
-so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
-stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
-more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
-matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
-him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
-jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
-no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
-gravity.
-
-At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
-proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
-made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
-assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
-hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
-invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
-to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
-this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
-disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
-
-“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
-Stryver.
-
-The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
-again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
-
-“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
-to-day. Every question told.”
-
-“I always am sound; am I not?”
-
-“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
-it and smooth it again.”
-
-With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
-
-“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
-his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
-old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
-now in despondency!”
-
-“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
-luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
-
-He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
-him, looking at the fire.
-
-“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
-as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
-was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
-Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
-is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
-at me.”
-
-“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
-good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”
-
-“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
-do?”
-
-“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
-your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
-do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”
-
-“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”
-
-“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
-Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
-
-“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
- pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
-mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
-picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
-didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
-nowhere.”
-
-“And whose fault was that?”
-
-“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
-driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
-that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
-thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
-Turn me in some other direction before I go.”
-
-“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
-his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”
-
-Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
-
-“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
-enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”
-
-“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”
-
-“_She_ pretty?”
-
-“Is she not?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”
-
-“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
-of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”
-
-“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
-and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
-thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
-and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”
-
-“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
-yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
-I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
-I'll get to bed.”
-
-When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
-him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
-windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
-dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
-lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
-before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
-the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
-
-Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
-on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
-wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
-perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
-from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
-fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
-A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
-houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
-pillow was wet with wasted tears.
-
-Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
-good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
-incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
-on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
-
-
-
-
-VI. Hundreds of People
-
-
-The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
-far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
-waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
-it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
-on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
-business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
-quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
-
-On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
-the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
-Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
-secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
-them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
-generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
-his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
-Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
-them.
-
-A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
-found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
-the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
-had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
-north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
-grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
-consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
-instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
-settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
-the peaches ripened in their season.
-
-The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
-of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
-though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
-glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
-place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
-
-There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
-there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
-several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
-audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
-a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
-rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
-to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
-who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
-he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
-visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
-to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
-a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
-workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
-about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
-thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
-required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
-the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
-from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
-
-Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
-its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
-His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
-ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
-he earned as much as he wanted.
-
-These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
-notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
-on the fine Sunday afternoon.
-
-“Doctor Manette at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Lucie at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Pross at home?”
-
-Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
-anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
-fact.
-
-“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”
-
-Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
-birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
-make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
-agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
-by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
-that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
-rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
-the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
-delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
-themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
-stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
-with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
-time, whether he approved?
-
-There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
-communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
-all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
-he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
-the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
-and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
-the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
-changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
-Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
-bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
-dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
-
-“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
-that reminder of his sufferings about him!”
-
-“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
-
-It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
-acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
-had since improved.
-
-“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.
-
-“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
-
-“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
-express that she bore him no malice.
-
-“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
-are you?”
-
-“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
-Ladybird.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
-fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
-stature) was shortness.
-
-“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
-
-“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
-very much put out.”
-
-“May I ask the cause?”
-
-“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
-come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”
-
-“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.
-
-It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
-time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
-she exaggerated it.
-
-“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
-
-“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
-paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
-your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
-for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
- said Miss Pross.
-
-Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
-using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
-fit anything.
-
-“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
-are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”
-
-“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”
-
-“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”
-
-“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
-enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
-that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
-him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
-circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
-and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
-him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”
-
-Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
-this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
-unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
-admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
-it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
-never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
-their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
-is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
-rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
-respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
-mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
-Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
-better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
-
-“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
-Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
-mistake in life.”
-
-Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
-established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
-who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
-speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
-no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
-(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
-matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
-
-“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
-business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
-sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
-in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”
-
-“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
-refer to it within himself.”
-
-“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”
-
-“I do,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
-short with:
-
-“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”
-
-“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
-sometimes?”
-
-“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
-bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
-theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
-the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
-oppressor?”
-
-“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”
-
-“And that is--?”
-
-“That she thinks he has.”
-
-“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
-mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”
-
-“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
-
-Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
-no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
-Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
-he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
-though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
-intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
-attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
-Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
-zealous interest.”
-
-“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
-me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
-of the whole subject.”
-
-“Afraid?”
-
-“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
-remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
-knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
-feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
-subject pleasant, I should think.”
-
-It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
-he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
-Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
-always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
-it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”
-
-“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
-string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
-In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
-the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
-up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
-know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
-his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
-and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
-a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
-best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
-together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
-brought him to himself.”
-
-Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
-perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
-in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
-her possessing such a thing.
-
-The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
-had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
-seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
-set it going.
-
-“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
-“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”
-
-It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
-peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
-looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
-they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
-the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
-heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
-at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
-was ready at the street door to receive them.
-
-Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
-off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
-with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
-folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
-as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
-had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
-sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
-her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
-playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
-chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
-them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
-eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
-have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
-beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
-stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
-Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
-for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
-
-Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
-the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
-always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
-quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
-contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
-better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
-kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
-impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
-impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
-of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
-who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
-or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
-a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
-pleased.
-
-On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
-persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
-regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
-which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
-Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
-to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
-
-It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
-wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
-there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
-they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
-the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
-time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
-plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
-and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
-whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
-
-Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
-presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
-was only One.
-
-Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
-suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
-retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
-disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
-jerks.”
-
-The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
-resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
-they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
-his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
-likeness.
-
-He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
-vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
-plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
-which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
-the Tower?”
-
-“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
-it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”
-
-“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
-though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
-character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
-curious thing when I was there.”
-
-“What was that?” Lucie asked.
-
-“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
-had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
-its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
-prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
-in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
-execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
-some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
-At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
-examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
-legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
-were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
-that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
-floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
-earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
-the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
-or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
-had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”
-
-“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”
-
-He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
-his look quite terrified them all.
-
-“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
-made me start. We had better go in.”
-
-He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
-drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
-said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
-of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
-either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
-towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
-when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
-
-He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
-his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
-steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
-was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
-that the rain had startled him.
-
-Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
-her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
-made only Two.
-
-The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
-windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
-done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
-heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
-leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
-the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
-ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
-
-“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
-Manette. “It comes slowly.”
-
-“It comes surely,” said Carton.
-
-They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
-dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
-
-There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
-get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
-resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
-footstep was there.
-
-“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
-listened for a while.
-
-“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
-sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
-a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
-solemn--”
-
-“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”
-
-“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
-originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
-sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
-the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
-by-and-bye into our lives.”
-
-“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
- Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
-
-The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
-rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
-as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
-coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
-the distant streets, and not one within sight.
-
-“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
-are we to divide them among us?”
-
-“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
-asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
-then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
-into my life, and my father's.”
-
-“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
-stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
-and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
-had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
-
-“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
-come, fast, fierce, and furious!”
-
-It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
-for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
-lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
-interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
-midnight.
-
-The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
-Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
-forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
-of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
-of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
-usually performed a good two hours earlier.
-
-“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
-bring the dead out of their graves.”
-
-“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
-would do that,” answered Jerry.
-
-“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
-Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”
-
-Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
-bearing down upon them, too.
-
-
-
-
-VII. Monseigneur in Town
-
-
-Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
-fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
-his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
-the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
-was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
-things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
-rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
-much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
-strong men besides the Cook.
-
-Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
-Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
-pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
-conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
-the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
-the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
-a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
-watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
-dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
-place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
-his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
-men; he must have died of two.
-
-Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
-and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
-a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
-impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
-more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
-state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
-for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
-favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
-days of the merry Stuart who sold it.
-
-Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
-was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
-business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
-his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
-particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
-was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
-by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
-thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”
-
-Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
-his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
-affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
-public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
-must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
-private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
-generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
-Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
-time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
-wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
-poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
-a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
-rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
-mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
-down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
-
-A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
-stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
-waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
-forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
-relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
-among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
-
-For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
-every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
-achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
-reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
-so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
-equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
-have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
-been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
-destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
-civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
-worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
-all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
-pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
-Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
-anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
-score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
-yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
-passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
-no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
-for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
-patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
-discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
-State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
-root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
-they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
-Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
-card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
-Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
-wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
-the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
-since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
-subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
-exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
-notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
-among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
-of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
-the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
-appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
-bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
-towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
-known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
-and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
-supped as at twenty.
-
-The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
-upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
-people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
-things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
-them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
-sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
-whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
-spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
-Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
-three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
-jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
-Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
-out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
-the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
-by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
-discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
-became manifest.
-
-But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
-Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
-ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
-correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
-delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
-swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
-surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
-of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
-languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
-and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
-fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
-his devouring hunger far away.
-
-Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
-things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
-was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
-Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
-of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
-descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
-required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
-and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
-rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
-Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
-him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
-Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
-of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
-hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
-see the very stars out!
-
-Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
-chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
-open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
-fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
-body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
-been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
-troubled it.
-
-Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
-happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
-passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
-Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
-course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
-sprites, and was seen no more.
-
-The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
-and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
-but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
-and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
-way out.
-
-“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
-and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”
-
-With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
-dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
-
-He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
-with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
-feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
-beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
-of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
-change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
-colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
-by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
-treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
-attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
-line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
-too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
-handsome face, and a remarkable one.
-
-Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
-drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
-stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
-in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
-to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
-often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
-charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
-check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
-sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
-that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
-custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
-barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
-time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
-left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
-
-With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
-consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
-dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
-before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
-its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
-wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
-number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
-
-But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
-stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
-behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
-and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
-
-“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
-
-A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
-the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
-down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
-
-“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
-a child.”
-
-“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”
-
-“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”
-
-The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
-into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
-got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
-Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
-
-“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
-their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”
-
-The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
-nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
-and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
-people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
-remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
-and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
-over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
-
-He took out his purse.
-
-“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
-of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
-the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
-him that.”
-
-He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
-craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
-tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”
-
-He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
-made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
-sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
-stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
-were as silent, however, as the men.
-
-“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
-Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
-live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
-as happily?”
-
-“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
-they call you?”
-
-“They call me Defarge.”
-
-“Of what trade?”
-
-“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”
-
-“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
-throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
-there; are they right?”
-
-Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
-Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
-air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
-paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
-disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
-
-“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”
-
-He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
-moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
-the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
-figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
-
-“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
-except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
-willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
-threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
-should be crushed under the wheels.”
-
-So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
-what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
-a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
-But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
-Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
-contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
-leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”
-
-He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
-succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
-Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
-whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
-had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
-on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
-spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
-which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
-bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
-while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
-of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
-had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
-of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
-into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
-time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
-in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
-things ran their course.
-
-
-
-
-VIII. Monseigneur in the Country
-
-
-A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
-Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
-and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
-inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
-tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
-disposition to give up, and wither away.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
-lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
-a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
-no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
-occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
-sun.
-
-The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
-gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
-die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”
-
-In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
-heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
-hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
-quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
-left when the drag was taken off.
-
-But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
-at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
-church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
-fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
-as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
-coming near home.
-
-The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
-tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
-fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
-its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
-shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
-fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
-the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
-were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
-for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
-paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
-the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.
-
-Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
-their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
-terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
-or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
-
-Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
-whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
-if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
-his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
-fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
-He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
-sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
-meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
-truth through the best part of a hundred years.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
-drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
-Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
-drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
-of the roads joined the group.
-
-“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.
-
-The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
-to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
-
-“I passed you on the road?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”
-
-“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true.”
-
-“What did you look at, so fixedly?”
-
-“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”
-
-He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
-carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
-
-“What man, pig? And why look there?”
-
-“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”
-
-“Who?” demanded the traveller.
-
-“Monseigneur, the man.”
-
-“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
-know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”
-
-“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
-all the days of my life, I never saw him.”
-
-“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”
-
-“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
-His head hanging over--like this!”
-
-He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
-face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
-himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
-
-“What was he like?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
-white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”
-
-The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
-eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
-the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
-conscience.
-
-“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
-vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
-and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
-Gabelle!”
-
-Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
-united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
-examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
-official manner.
-
-“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.
-
-“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
-to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”
-
-“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”
-
-“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”
-
-The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
-particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
-half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
-presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
-
-“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
-a person plunges into the river.”
-
-“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”
-
-The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
-wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
-to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
-they might not have been so fortunate.
-
-The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
-rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
-it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
-sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
-gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
-points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
-courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
-
-At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
-with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
-figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
-studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
-dreadfully spare and thin.
-
-To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
-growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
-turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
-presented herself at the carriage-door.
-
-“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”
-
-With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
-Monseigneur looked out.
-
-“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”
-
-“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”
-
-“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
-cannot pay something?”
-
-“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”
-
-“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”
-
-“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
-grass.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”
-
-“Again, well?”
-
-She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
-grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
-with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
-caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
-feel the appealing touch.
-
-“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
-want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”
-
-“Again, well? Can I feed them?”
-
-“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
-that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
-over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
-forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
-shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
-are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
-Monseigneur!”
-
-The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
-a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
-behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
-diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
-his chateau.
-
-The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
-the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
-at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
-of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
-man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
-could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
-in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
-stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
-been extinguished.
-
-The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
-was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
-for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
-of his chateau was opened to him.
-
-“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”
-
-“Monseigneur, not yet.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Gorgon's Head
-
-
-It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
-with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
-staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
-business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
-stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
-all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
-finished, two centuries ago.
-
-Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
-to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
-of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
-flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
-door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
-in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
-save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
-those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
-heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
-
-The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
-hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
-grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
-peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
-was angry.
-
-Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
-Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
-the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
-to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
-others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
-the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
-befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
-The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
-break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
-but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
-pages in the history of France.
-
-A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
-room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
-lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
-closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
-black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
-
-“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
-said he was not arrived.”
-
-Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
-
-“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
-table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
-
-In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
-sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
-he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
-lips, when he put it down.
-
-“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
-horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
-
-“Monseigneur? That?”
-
-“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”
-
-It was done.
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
-here.”
-
-The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
-the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
-for instructions.
-
-“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”
-
-That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
-half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
-hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
-front of the chateau.
-
-“Ask who is arrived.”
-
-It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
-Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
-rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
-He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
-
-He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
-there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
-He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
-
-Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
-hands.
-
-“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
-seat at table.
-
-“Yesterday. And you?”
-
-“I come direct.”
-
-“From London?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.
-
-“On the contrary; I come direct.”
-
-“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
-intending the journey.”
-
-“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
-answer--“various business.”
-
-“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.
-
-So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
-When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
-looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
-fine mask, opened a conversation.
-
-“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
-took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
-a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
-sustained me.”
-
-“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”
-
-“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
-the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”
-
-The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
-lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
-graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
-breeding that it was not reassuring.
-
-“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
-expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
-circumstances that surrounded me.”
-
-“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.
-
-“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
-deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
-and would know no scruple as to means.”
-
-“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
-two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”
-
-“I recall it.”
-
-“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
-
-His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
-instrument.
-
-“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
-bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
-France here.”
-
-“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
-“Dare I ask you to explain?”
-
-“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
-been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
-have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”
-
-“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
-of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
-Pray excuse me!”
-
-“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
-yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.
-
-“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
-politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
-consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
-your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
-yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
-at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
-aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
-might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
-and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
-(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
-things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
-of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
-dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
-one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
-some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
-lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
-assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
-to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
-bad!”
-
-The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
-as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
-containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
-
-“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
-time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
-more detested than any name in France.”
-
-“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
-involuntary homage of the low.”
-
-“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
-look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
-deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”
-
-“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
-merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
-Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
-crossed his legs.
-
-But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
-thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
-him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
-and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
-indifference.
-
-“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
-and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
-obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
-out the sky.”
-
-That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
-chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
-they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
-him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
-the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
-he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
-way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
-was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
-
-“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
-of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
-terminate our conference for the night?”
-
-“A moment more.”
-
-“An hour, if you please.”
-
-“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
-of wrong.”
-
-“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
-and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
-
-“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
-to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
-a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
-our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
-when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
-inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”
-
-“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.
-
-“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
-frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
-execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
-look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
-redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”
-
-“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
-breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
-will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”
-
-Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
-cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
-quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
-touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
-a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
-body, and said,
-
-“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
-lived.”
-
-When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
-box in his pocket.
-
-“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
-bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
-Monsieur Charles, I see.”
-
-“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
-renounce them.”
-
-“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
-is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”
-
-“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
-to me from you, to-morrow--”
-
-“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”
-
-“--or twenty years hence--”
-
-“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
-supposition.”
-
-“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
-relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
-
-“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
-under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
-mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
-and suffering.”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
-
-“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
-qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
-weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
-it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
-another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
-on it, and on all this land.”
-
-“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
-philosophy, graciously intend to live?”
-
-“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
-their backs, may have to do some day--work.”
-
-“In England, for example?”
-
-“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
-family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”
-
-The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
-lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
-Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
-valet.
-
-“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
-prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
-with a smile.
-
-“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
-be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”
-
-“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
-know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“With a daughter?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
-in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
-which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
-time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
-straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
-looked handsomely diabolic.
-
-“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
-commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
-outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
-looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
-
-“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
-again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
-chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
-added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
-valet to his own bedroom.
-
-The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
-loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
-night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
-noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
-enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
-periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
-coming on.
-
-He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
-scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
-toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
-prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
-the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
-chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
-the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
-tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”
-
-“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”
-
-So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
-gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
-with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
-
-The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
-for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
-rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
-very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
-the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
-hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
-
-For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
-stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
-dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
-The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
-were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
-have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
-taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
-the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
-the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
-freed.
-
-The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
-at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
-minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
-hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
-and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
-
-Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
-trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
-of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
-crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
-weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
-the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
-At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
-mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
-
-Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
-windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
-shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
-lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
-fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
-and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
-out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
-and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
-prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
-foot.
-
-The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
-surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
-reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
-now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
-round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
-doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
-pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
-
-All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
-return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
-chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
-figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
-everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
-
-What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
-at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
-much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
-peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
-to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
-no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
-down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
-fountain.
-
-All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
-in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
-emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
-in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
-on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
-trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
-the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
-all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
-on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
-highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
-into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
-himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
-and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
-a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
-(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
-the German ballad of Leonora?
-
-It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
-
-The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
-the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
-through about two hundred years.
-
-It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
-mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
-heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
-was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
-
-“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”
-
-
-
-
-X. Two Promises
-
-
-More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
-Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
-language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
-would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
-young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
-living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
-its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
-sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
-at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
-to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
-dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
-tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
-profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
-work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
-known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
-circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
-So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
-
-In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
-to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
-would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
-did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
-
-A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
-read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
-contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
-and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
-London.
-
-Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
-when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
-invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
-woman.
-
-He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
-heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
-he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
-confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
-him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
-at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
-long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
-mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
-much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
-
-That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
-summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
-he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
-of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
-day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
-
-He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
-which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
-their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
-very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
-of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
-sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
-exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
-frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
-
-He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
-ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
-sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
-
-“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
-return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
-both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”
-
-“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
-a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
-Manette--”
-
-“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
-delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
-soon be home.”
-
-“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
-being from home, to beg to speak to you.”
-
-There was a blank silence.
-
-“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
-and speak on.”
-
-He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
-easy.
-
-“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
- so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
-on which I am about to touch may not--”
-
-He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
-had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
-
-“Is Lucie the topic?”
-
-“She is.”
-
-“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
-to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”
-
-“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
-Manette!” he said deferentially.
-
-There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
-
-“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”
-
-His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
-originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
-Darnay hesitated.
-
-“Shall I go on, sir?”
-
-Another blank.
-
-“Yes, go on.”
-
-“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
-I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
-the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
-laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
-disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
-her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”
-
-The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
-ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
-and cried:
-
-“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”
-
-His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
-Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
-extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
-so received it, and remained silent.
-
-“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
-moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”
-
-He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
-raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
-overshadowed his face:
-
-“Have you spoken to Lucie?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Nor written?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
-to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
-you.”
-
-He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
-
-“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
-Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
-you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
-belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
-can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
-child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
-with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
-is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
-itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
-now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
-years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
-early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
-you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
-hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
-in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
-you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
-neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
-own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
-loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
-have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”
-
-Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
-little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
-
-“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
-with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
-long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
-now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
-your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
-Heaven is my witness that I love her!”
-
-“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
-before now. I believe it.”
-
-“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
-struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
-that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
-put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
-word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
-should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
-a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
-heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
-now touch this honoured hand.”
-
-He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
-
-“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
-you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
-you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
-in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
-life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
-with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
-come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”
-
-His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
-moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
-his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
-conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
-occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
-
-“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
-you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
-you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”
-
-“None. As yet, none.”
-
-“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
-ascertain that, with my knowledge?”
-
-“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
-might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”
-
-“Do you seek any guidance from me?”
-
-“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
-in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”
-
-“Do you seek any promise from me?”
-
-“I do seek that.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
-understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
-innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
-could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”
-
-“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”
-
-“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
-favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
-Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
-word, to save my life.”
-
-“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
-well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
-delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
-respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
-heart.”
-
-“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
-supplied the rest.
-
-“Is sought by any other suitor?”
-
-“It is what I meant to say.”
-
-Her father considered a little before he answered:
-
-“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
-occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”
-
-“Or both,” said Darnay.
-
-“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
-a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”
-
-“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
-part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
-bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
-may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
-me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
-condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
-require, I will observe immediately.”
-
-“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
-your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
-believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
-between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
-that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
-If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”
-
-The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
-the Doctor spoke:
-
-“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
-new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
-thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
-sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
-than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”
-
-So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
-his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
-hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
-
-“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
-“What was it you said to me?”
-
-He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
-condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
-
-“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
-part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
-not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
-why I am in England.”
-
-“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.
-
-“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
-secret from you.”
-
-“Stop!”
-
-For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
-another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
-
-“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
-should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
-promise?”
-
-“Willingly.
-
-“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
-should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”
-
-It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
-darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
-Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
-reading-chair empty.
-
-“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”
-
-Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
-bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
-his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
-blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”
-
-Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
-his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
-her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
-together for a long time.
-
-She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
-slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
-work, were all as usual.
-
-
-
-
-XI. A Companion Picture
-
-
-“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
-jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”
-
-Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
-and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
-a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
-of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
-arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
-November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
-bring grist to the mill again.
-
-Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
-application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
-through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
-the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
-his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
-intervals for the last six hours.
-
-“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
-his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
-his back.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
-surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
-shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”
-
-“_Do_ you?”
-
-“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”
-
-“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“Do I know her?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
-frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
-me to dinner.”
-
-“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
-posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
-because you are such an insensible dog.”
-
-“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
-sensitive and poetical spirit--”
-
-“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
-any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
-I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”
-
-“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”
-
-“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”
-
-“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.
-
-“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
-inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
-be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
-to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”
-
-“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
-way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
-as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
-moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
-hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
-Sydney!”
-
-“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
-be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
-to me.”
-
-“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
-rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
-to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
-fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”
-
-Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
-
-“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
-myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
-Why do I do it?”
-
-“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.
-
-“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
-get on.”
-
-“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
- answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
-to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”
-
-He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
-
-“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
-delivered in no very soothing tone.
-
-“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
-“Who is the lady?”
-
-“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
-Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
-for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
-half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
-make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
-me in slighting terms.”
-
-“I did?”
-
-“Certainly; and in these chambers.”
-
-Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
-drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
-
-“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
-lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
-delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
-little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
-You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
-think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
-a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
-of mine, who had no ear for music.”
-
-Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
-looking at his friend.
-
-“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
-fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
-please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
-will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
-and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
-but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
-astonished?”
-
-“You approve?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”
-
-“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
-you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
-be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
-ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
-enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
-feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
-inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
-that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
-credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
-say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
-know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
-you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
-you really ought to think about a nurse.”
-
-The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
-big as he was, and four times as offensive.
-
-“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
-I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
-you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
-you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
-understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
-respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
-or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
-kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”
-
-“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.
-
-
-
-
-XII. The Fellow of Delicacy
-
-
-Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
-fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
-to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
-debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
-well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
-at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
-before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
-and Hilary.
-
-As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
-saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
-grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
-plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
-plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
-the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
-consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
-case could be.
-
-Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
-proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
-Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
-himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
-
-Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
-while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
-Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
-on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
-along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
-seen how safe and strong he was.
-
-His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
-knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
-Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
-of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
-in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
-cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
-Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
-bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
-under the clouds were a sum.
-
-“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”
-
-It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
-place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
-in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
-squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
-the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
-the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
-
-The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
-recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
-you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
-of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
-hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
-self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
-
-“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
-business character.
-
-“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
-have come for a private word.”
-
-“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
-to the House afar off.
-
-“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
-desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
-be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
-in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
-visitor dubiously.
-
-“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
-What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
-appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
-my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
-Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
-manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
-“you know there really is so much too much of you!”
-
-“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
-opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
-Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”
-
-Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
-end, and bit the feather of a pen.
-
-“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”
-
-“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
-eligible, you are eligible.”
-
-“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.
-
-“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“And advancing?”
-
-“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
-able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”
-
-“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
-perceptibly crestfallen.
-
-“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
-
-“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”
-
-“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
-shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
-have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”
-
-“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
-having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”
-
-“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
-Stryver.
-
-“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
-a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
-complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
-head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
-been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
-
-“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
-when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
-causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
-lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
-young lady. The young lady goes before all.”
-
-“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
-elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
-present in question is a mincing Fool?”
-
-“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
-reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
-from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
-taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
-not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
-this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
-mind.”
-
-The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
-blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
-Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
-no better state now it was his turn.
-
-“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
-be no mistake about it.”
-
-Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
-hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
-toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
-
-“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
-to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
-bar?”
-
-“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”
-
-“Yes, I do.”
-
-“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”
-
-“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
-this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”
-
-“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
-not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
-business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
-Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
-of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
-spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
-may not be right?”
-
-“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
-parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
-in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
-new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”
-
-“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
-understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
-will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
-gentleman breathing.”
-
-“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.
-
-“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
-painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
-Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
-painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
-know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
-the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
-in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
-little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
-it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
-soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
-with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
-best spared. What do you say?”
-
-“How long would you keep me in town?”
-
-“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
-evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”
-
-“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
-hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
-in to-night. Good morning.”
-
-Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
-concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
-bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
-of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
-always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
-believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
-the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
-
-The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
-gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
-moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
-swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
-forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
-out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”
-
-It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
-great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
-Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”
-
-Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
-Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
-purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
-the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
-altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.
-
-“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
-bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
-Soho.”
-
-“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
-thinking of!”
-
-“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
-conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
-advice.”
-
-“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
-am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
-account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
-us say no more about it.”
-
-“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
-final way; “no matter, no matter.”
-
-“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.
-
-“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
-sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
-not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
-done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
-repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
-aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
-a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
-glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
-for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
-have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
-proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
-certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
-that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
-giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
-will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
-I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
-And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
-and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
-you were right, it never would have done.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
-Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
-showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
-“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
-thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”
-
-Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
-was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy
-
-
-If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
-house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
-and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
-cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
-which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
-pierced by the light within him.
-
-And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
-and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
-he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
-transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
-figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
-of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
-in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
-brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
-into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
-him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
-it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
-neighbourhood.
-
-On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
-that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
-delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
-City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
-for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
-those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
-animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
-they took him to the Doctor's door.
-
-He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
-never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
-embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
-his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
-a change in it.
-
-“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
-is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”
-
-“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
-live no better life?”
-
-“God knows it is a shame!”
-
-“Then why not change it?”
-
-Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
-there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
-answered:
-
-“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
-sink lower, and be worse.”
-
-He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
-table trembled in the silence that followed.
-
-She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
-be so, without looking at her, and said:
-
-“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
-what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”
-
-“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
-it would make me very glad!”
-
-“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”
-
-He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
-
-“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
-one who died young. All my life might have been.”
-
-“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
-sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”
-
-“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
-mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
-it!”
-
-She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
-of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
-been holden.
-
-“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
-love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
-poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
-conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
-bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
-disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
-no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
-be.”
-
-“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
-you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
-confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
-little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
-no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
-
-He shook his head.
-
-“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
-little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
-you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
-been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
-home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
-died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
-I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
-old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
-have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
-sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
-a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
-but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
-
-“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
-
-“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
-undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
-weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
-heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
-its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
-service, idly burning away.”
-
-“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
-than you were before you knew me--”
-
-“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
-anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
-
-“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
-attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
-make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
-good, with you, at all?”
-
-“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
-here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
-the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
-and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
-deplore and pity.”
-
-“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
-all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
-and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
-me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
-was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
-alone, and will be shared by no one?”
-
-“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”
-
-“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
-yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”
-
-“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”
-
-He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
-
-“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
-conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
-again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
-the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
-shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
-to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
-in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”
-
-He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
-sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
-down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
-stood looking back at her.
-
-“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
-hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
-but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
-wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
-shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
-what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
-to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”
-
-“I will, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
-you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
-between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
-it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
-you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
-there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
-embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
-me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
-thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
-ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
-and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
-grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
-happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
-beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
-a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”
-
-He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Honest Tradesman
-
-
-To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
-Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
-variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
-upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
-not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
-westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
-both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
-the sun goes down!
-
-With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
-like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
-watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
-running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
-since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
-women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
-Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
-companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
-to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
-have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
-the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
-purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
-
-Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
-the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
-but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
-
-It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
-few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
-unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
-Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
-unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
-attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
-funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
-funeral, which engendered uproar.
-
-“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
-buryin'.”
-
-“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.
-
-The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
-significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
-his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
-
-“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
-to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
-_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
-let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
-hear?”
-
-“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
-
-“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
-harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
-
-His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
-round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
-there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
-considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
-appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
-surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
-incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
- with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
-
-Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
-always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
-Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
-excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
-
-“What is it, brother? What's it about?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
-
-He asked another man. “Who is it?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
-nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
-greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
-
-At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
-against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
-funeral of one Roger Cly.
-
-“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
-Spi--i--ies!”
-
-“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
-assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”
-
-“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
-out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”
-
-The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
-that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
-suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
-so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
-doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
-for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
-that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
-shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
-other symbolical tears.
-
-These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
-enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
-crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
-They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
-out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
-its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
-much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
-the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
-while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
-exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
-was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
-the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
-coach.
-
-The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
-the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
-remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
-members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
-The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
-hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
-close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
-by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
-popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
-ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
-bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
-that part of the procession in which he walked.
-
-Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
-caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
-at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
-was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
-in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
-accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
-highly to its own satisfaction.
-
-The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
-providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
-genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
-passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
-was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
-the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
-they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
-window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
-and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
-been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
-the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
-coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
-the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
-progress of a mob.
-
-Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
-behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
-The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
-neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
-maturely considering the spot.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
-“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
-was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”
-
-Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
-himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
-station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
-his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
-amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
-man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
-his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
-
-Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
-job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
-usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
-
-“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
-entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
-shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
-for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
-
-The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
-
-“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
-angry apprehension.
-
-“I am saying nothing.”
-
-“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
-You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
-yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
-but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
-ironical dissatisfaction.
-
-“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
-bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
-oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
-
-“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
-another bite.
-
-“Yes, I am.”
-
-“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
-
-“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
-where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”
-
-“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”
-
-“Never you mind.”
-
-“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
-
-“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
-gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
-going out, till you've been long abed.”
-
-He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
-most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
-conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
-to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
-conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
-on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
-he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
-person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
-honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
-professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
-
-“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
-honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
-of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
-tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
-on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
-customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”
-
-Then he began grumbling again:
-
-“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
-know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
-flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
-your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
-and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”
-
-This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
-perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
-all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
-function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
-
-Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
-was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
-obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
-solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
-o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
-took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
-forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
-fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
-in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
-extinguished the light, and went out.
-
-Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
-bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
-followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
-court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
-his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
-door stood ajar all night.
-
-Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
-father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
-walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
-honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
-gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
-the two trudged on together.
-
-Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
-winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
-lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
-that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
-second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
-himself into two.
-
-The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
-under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
-brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
-wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
-the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
-Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
-Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
-defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
-He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
-third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
-there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
-and knees.
-
-It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
-holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
-in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
-and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
-that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
-tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
-creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
-fish.
-
-They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
-appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
-Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
-striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
-with his hair as stiff as his father's.
-
-But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
-only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
-were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
-the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
-screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
-strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
-earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
-it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
-wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
-made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
-
-He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
-it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
-to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
-was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
-upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
-and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
-shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
-was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
-roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
-like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
-too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
-to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
-and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
-incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
-got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
-it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
-stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
-his breast when he fell asleep.
-
-From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
-daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
-family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
-inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
-ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
-bed.
-
-“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
-
-“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.
-
-“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
-and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
-you?”
-
-“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.
-
-“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
-honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
-husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”
-
-“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”
-
-“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
-honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
-when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
-wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
-woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
-no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
-of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”
-
-The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
-the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
-at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
-his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
-down too, and fell asleep again.
-
-There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
-Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
-by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
-he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
-and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
-ostensible calling.
-
-Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
-along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
-from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
-solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
-and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
-improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
-that fine morning.
-
-“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
-at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
-Resurrection-Man?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
-should I know?”
-
-“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.
-
-“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
-hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”
-
-“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.
-
-“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
-branch of Scientific goods.”
-
-“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.
-
-“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
-growed up!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
-“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
-your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
-there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
-for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
-to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
-himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
-yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”
-
-
-
-
-XV. Knitting
-
-
-There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
-Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
-through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
-measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
-of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
-he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
-influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
-vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
-Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
-the dregs of it.
-
-This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
-early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
-on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
-brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
-slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
-not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
-were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
-have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
-and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
-looks.
-
-Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
-was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
-threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
-only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
-wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
-and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
-humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
-
-A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
-observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
-at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
-gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
-towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
-of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
-with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
-a long way off.
-
-Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
-high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
-his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
-mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
-the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
-of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
-flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
-followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
-the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
-
-“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
-an answering chorus of “Good day!”
-
-“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.
-
-Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
-their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
-
-“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
-travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
-Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
-He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
-drink, my wife!”
-
-A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
-mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
-and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
-bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
-Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
-
-Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
-than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
-rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
-He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
-Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
-
-“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.
-
-“Yes, thank you.”
-
-“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
-occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”
-
-Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
-courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
-staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
-sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
-
-No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
-gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
-man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
-him through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
-
-“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
-encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
-Speak, Jacques Five!”
-
-The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
-it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”
-
-“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
-commencement.”
-
-“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
-running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
-chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
-going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
-hanging by the chain--like this.”
-
-Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
-he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
-the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
-during a whole year.
-
-Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
-
-“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
-
-Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
-
-“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
-finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
-'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”
-
-“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.
-
-“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
-confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
-offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
-standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
-My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”
-
-“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
-interrupted. “Go on!”
-
-“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
-is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”
-
-“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
-he is unluckily found. Go on!”
-
-“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
-go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
-village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
-coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
-with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”
-
-With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
-elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
-
-“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
-and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
-spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
-see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
-that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
-going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
-their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
-road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
-Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
-with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
-to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
-be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
-on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”
-
-He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
-vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
-
-“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
-show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
-our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
-village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
-follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
-shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
-consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”
-
-He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
-butt-ends of muskets.
-
-“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
-laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
-but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
-the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
-and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
-darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”
-
-He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
-snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
-opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”
-
-“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
-voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
-village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
-locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
-except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
-my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
-my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
-iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
-hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
-dead man.”
-
-Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
-of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
-countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
-authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
-and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
-his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
-intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
-over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
-standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
-light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
-him.
-
-“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.
-
-“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
-at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
-distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
-of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
-faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
-the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
-whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
-executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
-that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
-that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
-It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”
-
-“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
-“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
-yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
-sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
-hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
-his hand.”
-
-“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
-his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
-strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
-food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
-and struck him blows. You hear?”
-
-“I hear, messieurs.”
-
-“Go on then,” said Defarge.
-
-“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
-countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
-the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
-that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
-father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
-parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
-with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
-which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
-poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
-that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
-says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
-the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
-I am not a scholar.”
-
-“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
-and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
-all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
-nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
-the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
-attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
-when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
-done--why, how old are you?”
-
-“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
-
-“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
-it.”
-
-“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
-on.”
-
-“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
-even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
-night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
-the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
-Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
-the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
-water.”
-
-The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
-and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
-
-“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
-the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
-have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
-of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
-a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
-laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
-from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
-fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
-there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”
-
-They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
-on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
-spectacle.
-
-“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
-water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
-I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
-bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
-across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
-messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”
-
-The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
-three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
-
-“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
-and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
-warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
-walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
-you see me!”
-
-After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
-and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
-door?”
-
-“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
-top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
-
-The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
-the garret.
-
-“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”
-
-“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.
-
-“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.
-
-“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”
-
-The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
-gnawing another finger.
-
-“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
-can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
-safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
-be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”
-
-“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
-undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
-a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
-own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
-Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
-to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
-crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”
-
-There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
-hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
-very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”
-
-“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
-easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
-with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
-on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
-Court; let him see them on Sunday.”
-
-“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
-wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”
-
-“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
-to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
-him to bring it down one day.”
-
-Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
-dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
-pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
-asleep.
-
-Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
-in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
-dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
-new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
-unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
-his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
-he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
-contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
-might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
-into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
-murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
-with it until the play was played out.
-
-Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
-(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
-and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
-madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
-additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
-afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
-see the carriage of the King and Queen.
-
-“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.
-
-“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”
-
-“What do you make, madame?”
-
-“Many things.”
-
-“For instance--”
-
-“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”
-
-The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
-of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
-and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
-fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
-and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
-shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
-ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
-and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
-sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
-intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
-Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
-ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
-terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
-more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
-with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
-hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
-and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
-from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
-pieces.
-
-“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
-patron; “you are a good boy!”
-
-The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
-having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
-
-“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
-these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
-insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”
-
-“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”
-
-“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
-stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
-in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
-tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
-deceive them too much.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
-confirmation.
-
-“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
-it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”
-
-“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
-pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
-pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly yes, madame.”
-
-“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
-set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
-you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”
-
-“It is true, madame.”
-
-“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
-a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
-“now, go home!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI. Still Knitting
-
-
-Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
-bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
-darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
-the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
-the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
-the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
-for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
-scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
-stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
-terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
-the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
-village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
-when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
-faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
-up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
-look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
-stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
-was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
-everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
-scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
-crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
-skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
-started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
-who could find a living there.
-
-Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
-stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
-of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
-night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
-world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
-star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
-the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
-the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
-vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
-
-The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
-in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
-journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
-guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
-examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
-of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
-with, and affectionately embraced.
-
-When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
-and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
-picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
-streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
-
-“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
-
-“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
-commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
-can say, but he knows of one.”
-
-“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
-business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
-man?”
-
-“He is English.”
-
-“So much the better. His name?”
-
-“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
-been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
-correctness.
-
-“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”
-
-“John.”
-
-“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
-“Good. His appearance; is it known?”
-
-“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
-complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
-thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
-sinister.”
-
-“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
-registered to-morrow.”
-
-They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
-and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
-the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
-stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
-her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
-dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
-of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
-handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
-night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
-up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
-condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
-walked up and down through life.
-
-The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
-neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
-by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
-it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
-whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
-
-“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
-money. “There are only the usual odours.”
-
-“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.
-
-“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
-never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
-him. “Oh, the men, the men!”
-
-“But my dear!” began Defarge.
-
-“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
-faint of heart to-night, my dear!”
-
-“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
-breast, “it _is_ a long time.”
-
-“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
-Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”
-
-“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
-Defarge.
-
-“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
-the lightning? Tell me.”
-
-Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
-too.
-
-“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
-swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
-earthquake?”
-
-“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.
-
-“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
-before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
-seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”
-
-She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
-
-“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
-“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
-coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
-is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
-that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
-the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
-more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
-you.”
-
-“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
-a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
-attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
-it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
-it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”
-
-“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
-were another enemy strangled.
-
-“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
-“We shall not see the triumph.”
-
-“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
-strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
-my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
-certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
-would--”
-
-Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
-
-“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
-cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”
-
-“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
-and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
-When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
-time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”
-
-Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
-little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
-out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
-manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
-
-Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
-wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
-now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
-usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
-drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
-and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
-perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
-dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
-out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
-themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
-the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
-thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
-
-A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
-felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
-rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
-
-It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
-customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
-wine-shop.
-
-“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.
-
-“Good day, monsieur.”
-
-She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
-“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
-hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
-thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
-expression! Good day, one and all!”
-
-“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
-mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
-
-Madame complied with a polite air.
-
-“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
-
-It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
-Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
-however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
-visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
-of observing the place in general.
-
-“You knit with great skill, madame.”
-
-“I am accustomed to it.”
-
-“A pretty pattern too!”
-
-“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
-
-“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
-
-“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
-fingers moved nimbly.
-
-“Not for use?”
-
-“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
-madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
-coquetry, “I'll use it!”
-
-It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
-decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
-men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
-catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
-looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
-Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
-one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
-but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
-poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
-unimpeachable.
-
-“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
-and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
-'BARSAD' before you go.”
-
-“You have a husband, madame?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“Children?”
-
-“No children.”
-
-“Business seems bad?”
-
-“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
-
-“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”
-
-“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
-extra something into his name that boded him no good.
-
-“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
-Of course.”
-
-“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
-enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
-think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
-it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
-embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”
-
-The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
-not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
-stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
-Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
-
-“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
-Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
-
-“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
-for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
-price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”
-
-“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
-that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
-susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
-is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
-fellow? Between ourselves.”
-
-“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.
-
-“Is there not?”
-
-“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.
-
-As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
-him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
-Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
-
-“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
-confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
-
-“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
-“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”
-
-“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
-day!”
-
-“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.
-
-“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
-you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
-and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”
-
-“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
-of it.”
-
-Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
-hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
-person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
-have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
-attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
-water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
-out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
-it.
-
-“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
- observed Defarge.
-
-“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
-in its miserable inhabitants.”
-
-“Hah!” muttered Defarge.
-
-“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
- pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
-associations with your name.”
-
-“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.
-
-“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
-had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
-informed of the circumstances?”
-
-“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
-to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
-warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
-
-“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
-from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
-monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
-Tellson and Company--over to England.”
-
-“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.
-
-“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
-Manette and his daughter, in England.”
-
-“Yes?” said Defarge.
-
-“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.
-
-“No,” said Defarge.
-
-“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
-song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
-arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
-they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
-no correspondence.”
-
-“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”
-
-“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
-ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”
-
-“Oh! You know I am English.”
-
-“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
-suppose the man is.”
-
-He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
-of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
-end, he added:
-
-“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
-one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
-poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
-going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
-was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
-Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
-Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”
-
-Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
-effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
-as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
-troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
-spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
-
-Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
-worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
-paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
-in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
-pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
-after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
-husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
-come back.
-
-“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
-as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
-said of Ma'amselle Manette?”
-
-“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
-is probably false. But it may be true.”
-
-“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.
-
-“If it is?” repeated his wife.
-
-“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
-sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”
-
-“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
-“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
-to end him. That is all I know.”
-
-“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
-Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
-“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
-husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
-the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”
-
-“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
-madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
-for their merits; that is enough.”
-
-She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
-took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
-Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
-decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
-disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
-shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
-
-In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
-himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
-to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
-Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
-to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
-her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
-knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
-mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
-jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
-the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
-
-But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
-Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
-among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
-behind.
-
-Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
-great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
-grand woman!”
-
-Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
-the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
-the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
-darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
-pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
-thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
-wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
-Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
-knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
-a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
-counting dropping heads.
-
-
-
-
-XVII. One Night
-
-
-Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
-Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
-under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
-radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
-seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
-
-Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
-for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
-
-“You are happy, my dear father?”
-
-“Quite, my child.”
-
-They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
-was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
-in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
-both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
-time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
-
-“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
-love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
-for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
-if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
-the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
-self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”
-
-Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
-
-In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
-upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
-the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
-its going.
-
-“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
-quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
-ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
-own heart, do you feel quite certain?”
-
-Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
-scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
-added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
-seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
-was--without it.”
-
-“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”
-
-“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
-it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
-fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
-wasted--”
-
-She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
-the word.
-
-“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
-natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
-comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
-how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”
-
-“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
-with you.”
-
-He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
-without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
-
-“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
-Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
-should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
-cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”
-
-It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
-refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
-sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
-afterwards.
-
-“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
-“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
-light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
-of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
-my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
-that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
-could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
-with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
-manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
-and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”
-
-The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
-deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
-the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
-cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
-
-“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
-child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
-been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
-was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
-imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
-was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
-to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
-will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
-
-She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
-
-“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
-me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
-cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
-to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
-the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
-blank.”
-
-“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
-never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
-
-“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
-brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
-the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”
-
-“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”
-
-“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
-have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
-like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
-foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
-leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
-image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
-her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
-But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”
-
-“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”
-
-“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
-sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
-and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
-that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
-have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
-I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
-perplexed distinctions.”
-
-His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
-cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
-
-“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
-coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
-life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
-was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
-cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”
-
-“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
-that was I.”
-
-“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
-they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
-a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
-up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
-imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
-But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
-blessed her.”
-
-“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
-me as fervently to-morrow?”
-
-“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
-for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
-happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
-happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”
-
-He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
-Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
-house.
-
-There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
-be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
-change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
-by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
-apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
-
-Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
-three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
-was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
-little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
-
-So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
-But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
-downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
-beforehand.
-
-All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
-asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
-hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
-shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
-then, leaned over him, and looked at him.
-
-Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
-covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
-mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
-resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
-beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
-
-She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
-she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
-sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
-more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
-of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
-in praying for him.
-
-
-
-
-XVIII. Nine Days
-
-
-The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
-closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
-Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
-Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
-reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
-but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
-have been the bridegroom.
-
-“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
-and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
-pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
-you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
-what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
-on my friend Mr. Charles!”
-
-“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
-therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”
-
-“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”
-
-“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
-on occasion.)
-
-“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
-a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
-anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
-Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
-I couldn't see it.”
-
-“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
-had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
-invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
-speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
-might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”
-
-“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.
-
-“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
-gentleman of that name.
-
-“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
-
-“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
-seems probable, too.”
-
-“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
-were put in your cradle.”
-
-“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
-with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
-pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
-her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
-I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
-opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
-your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
-own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
-fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
-shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
-the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
-your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
-him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
-Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
-old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
-own.”
-
-For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
-well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
-golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
-delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
-
-The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
-Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
-went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
-But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
-shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
-old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
-wind.
-
-He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
-which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
-another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
-eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
-
-Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
-group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
-glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
-dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
-breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
-mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
-mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
-door at parting.
-
-It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
-cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
-enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”
-
-And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
-gone.
-
-The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
-preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
-and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
-the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
-change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
-there, had struck him a poisoned blow.
-
-He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
-expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
-the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
-manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
-room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
-wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
-
-“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
-think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
-I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
-presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
-there, and all will be well.”
-
-It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
-Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
-old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
-into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
-
-“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”
-
-Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
-lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
-He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”
-
-Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
-Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
-when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
-down, and he was very busy.
-
-“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”
-
-The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
-were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.
-
-He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
-throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
-haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
-hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
-shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
-him, and asked what it was.
-
-“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
-ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”
-
-“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”
-
-He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
-his work.
-
-“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
-occupation. Think, dear friend!”
-
-Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
-a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
-a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
-words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
-the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
-he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
-seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
-trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.
-
-Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
-all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
-the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
-conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
-precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
-few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
-on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
-called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
-two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
-addressed to her by the same post.
-
-These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
-the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
-another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
-thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
-
-In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
-being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
-attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
-therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
-first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
-room.
-
-He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
-to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
-attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
-before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
-fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
-window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
-natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
-
-Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
-that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
-after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
-When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
-and said to him:
-
-“Will you go out?”
-
-He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
-looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
-
-“Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
-Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
-with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
-some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
-business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
-
-Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
-at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
-time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
-fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
-bench and to work.
-
-On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
-and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
-returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
-that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
-to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
-at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
-present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
-amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
-enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
-friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
-appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
-him.
-
-When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
-
-“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”
-
-As before, he repeated, “Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
-from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
-meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
-sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
-slipped away to his bench.
-
-The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
-heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
-The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
-seven days, eight days, nine days.
-
-With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
-heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
-well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
-observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
-was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
-his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
-the dusk of the ninth evening.
-
-
-
-
-XIX. An Opinion
-
-
-Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
-tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
-into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
-night.
-
-He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
-done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
-Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
-and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
-at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
-Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
-studious and attentive.
-
-Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
-giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
-not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
-friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
-as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
-which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
-
-It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
-answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
-corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
-How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
-Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
-Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?
-
-Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
-had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
-resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
-He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
-breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
-had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
-Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
-the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
-
-Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
-out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
-toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
-white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
-usual way, and came to breakfast.
-
-So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
-delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
-advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
-place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
-the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
-counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
-he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
-he sought. And that aid was his own.
-
-Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
-Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
-
-“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
-very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
-very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
-so.”
-
-Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
-Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
-at his hands more than once.
-
-“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
-arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
-give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
-for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”
-
-“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
-shock--?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”
-
-Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
-
-“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
-of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
-the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
-shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
-long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
-are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
-which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
-himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
-the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
-be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
-great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
-stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
-there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”
-
-The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”
-
-“Nine days and nights.”
-
-“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
-resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”
-
-“That is the fact.”
-
-“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
-collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
-originally?”
-
-“Once.”
-
-“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
-respects--as he was then?”
-
-“I think in all respects.”
-
-“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”
-
-“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
-It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”
-
-The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
-very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
-the two spoke for a little while.
-
-“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
-considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
-and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
-possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
-intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
-I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
-relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
-be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
-about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
-more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
-if I knew how.
-
-“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
-knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
-able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
-Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
-and teach me how to be a little more useful.”
-
-Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
-Mr. Lorry did not press him.
-
-“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
-“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
-unforeseen by its subject.”
-
-“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
-
-“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
-
-“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
-mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
-himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”
-
-“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
-upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
-him?”
-
-“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
-believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”
-
-“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
-after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
-attack?”
-
-“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
-extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
-was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
-distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
-there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
-would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
-particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
-effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”
-
-“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
-with natural hesitation.
-
-The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
-answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
-
-“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
-
-“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
-great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
-should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
-something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
-and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
-the worst was over.”
-
-“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
-
-“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
-be instructed. I may go on?”
-
-“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
-hand.
-
-“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
-he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
-knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
-he do too much?”
-
-“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
-singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
-part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
-things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
-direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”
-
-“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
-
-“I think I am quite sure of it.”
-
-“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”
-
-“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
-violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
-
-“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
-that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
-disorder?”
-
-“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
-firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
-association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
-extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
-happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
-such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
-believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”
-
-He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
-would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
-confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
-endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
-confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
-really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
-be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
-conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
-last nine days, he knew that he must face it.
-
-“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
-so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
-will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
-case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
-time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
-found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
-him?”
-
-The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
-nervously on the ground.
-
-“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
-his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”
-
-Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
-ground.
-
-“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
-understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
-shook his head, and stopped.
-
-“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
-“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
-of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
-occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
-his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
-the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
-practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
-torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
-quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
-himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
-of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
-find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
-fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
-
-He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
-face.
-
-“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
-who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
-bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
-the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
-with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
-forge?”
-
-There was another silence.
-
-“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
-companion.”
-
-“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
-in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
-sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
-Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
-sake, my dear Manette!”
-
-Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
-
-“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
-it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
-let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
-passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
-three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
-day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
-had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
-explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
-she had no suspicions.
-
-On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
-his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
-carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
-guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
-Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
-which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
-burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
-purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
-shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
-and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
-while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
-traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
-crime.
-
-
-
-
-XX. A Plea
-
-
-When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
-offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
-many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
-in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
-about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
-
-He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
-speaking to him when no one overheard.
-
-“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
-
-“We are already friends, I hope.”
-
-“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
-mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
-friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
-
-Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
-good-fellowship, what he did mean?
-
-“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
-in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
-remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
-usual?”
-
-“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
-you had been drinking.”
-
-“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
-always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
-when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
-preach.”
-
-“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
-to me.”
-
-“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
-away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
-you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
-wish you would forget it.”
-
-“I forgot it long ago.”
-
-“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
-me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
-and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
-
-“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
-for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
-surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
-faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
-Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
-remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”
-
-“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
-you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
-don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
-say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”
-
-“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
-quarrel with _your_ light answer.”
-
-“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
-I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
-incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
-ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”
-
-“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
-
-“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
-any good, and never will.”
-
-“I don't know that you 'never will.'”
-
-“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
-to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
-reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
-permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
-be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
-resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
-furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
-doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
-should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
-dare say, to know that I had it.”
-
-“Will you try?”
-
-“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
-indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”
-
-“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
-
-They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
-afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
-
-When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
-Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
-this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
-problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
-bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
-him as he showed himself.
-
-He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
-wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
-her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
-marked.
-
-“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
-
-“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
-and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
-to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”
-
-“What is it, my Lucie?”
-
-“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
-ask it?”
-
-“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
-
-What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
-cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
-
-“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
-respect than you expressed for him to-night.”
-
-“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
-
-“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”
-
-“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”
-
-“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
-lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
-he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
-wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”
-
-“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
-astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
-of him.”
-
-“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
-scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
-now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
-even magnanimous things.”
-
-She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
-that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
-
-“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
-head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
-we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”
-
-The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
-Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”
-
-He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
-her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
-could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
-of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
-that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
-have parted from his lips for the first time--
-
-“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI. Echoing Footsteps
-
-
-A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
-the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
-her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
-companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
-the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
-years.
-
-At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
-when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
-dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
-afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
-Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
-doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
-her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
-footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
-be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
-eyes, and broke like waves.
-
-That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
-advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
-her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
-mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
-the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
-children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
-her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
-joy to her.
-
-Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
-weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
-their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
-echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
-step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
-Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
-unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
-plane-tree in the garden!
-
-Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
-harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
-pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
-smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
-leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
-tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
-departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
-forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
-
-Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
-echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
-of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
-mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
-murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
-the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
-dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
-the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
-
-The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
-half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
-uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
-done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
-regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
-all true echoes for ages and ages.
-
-No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
-blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
-but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
-delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
-such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
-was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
-and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
-him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”
-
-Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
-forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
-his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
-in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
-life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
-stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
-it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
-state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
-rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
-property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
-but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
-
-These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
-offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
-sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
-Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
-bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
-rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
-Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
-training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
-pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
-declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
-Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
-diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
-to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
-parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
-latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
-it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
-originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
-off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
-
-These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
-amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
-daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
-child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
-and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
-Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
-with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
-waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
-in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
-more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
-many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
-to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
-the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
-as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
-have too much to do?”
-
-But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
-in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
-little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
-as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
-
-On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
-Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
-her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
-all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
-lightning from the same place.
-
-“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
-I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
-business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
-to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
-run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
-to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
-among some of them for sending it to England.”
-
-“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--
-
-“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
-there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
-getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
-without due occasion.”
-
-“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”
-
-“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
-himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
-am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
-Manette?”
-
-“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
-
-“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
-which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
-reason. You are not going out, I hope?”
-
-“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
-Doctor.
-
-“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
-pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
-see.”
-
-“Of course, it has been kept for you.”
-
-“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”
-
-“And sleeping soundly.”
-
-“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
-otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
-all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
-come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
-the echoes about which you have your theory.”
-
-“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”
-
-“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
-are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”
-
-Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
-life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
-footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
-the dark London window.
-
-Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
-heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
-heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
-roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
-struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
-all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
-weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
-
-Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
-agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
-heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
-have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
-powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
-weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
-could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
-force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
-heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
-Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
-with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
-
-As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
-circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
-had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
-already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
-thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
-another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
-
-“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
-One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
-patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”
-
-“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
-knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
-in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
-and a cruel knife.
-
-“Where do you go, my wife?”
-
-“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
-of women, by-and-bye.”
-
-“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
-friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”
-
-With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
-into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
-depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
-beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
-began.
-
-Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
-towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
-the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
-a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
-wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
-
-Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
-cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
-all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
-Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
-the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
-wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
-
-“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
-the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
-cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
-revenge.
-
-Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
-drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
-displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
-weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
-at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
-execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
-furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
-single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
-towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
-by the service of Four fierce hours.
-
-A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
-perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
-the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
-wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
-walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
-
-So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
-draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
-struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
-outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
-made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
-Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
-inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
-exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
-furious dumb-show.
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-“The Records!”
-
-“The secret cells!”
-
-“The instruments of torture!”
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
-the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
-eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
-billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
-threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
-undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
-these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
-hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
-wall.
-
-“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
-there is no one there.”
-
-“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
-Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“The meaning, monsieur?”
-
-“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
-shall strike you dead?”
-
-“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
-
-“Monsieur, it is a cell.”
-
-“Show it me!”
-
-“Pass this way, then.”
-
-Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
-by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
-held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
-been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
-as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
-noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
-its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
-outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
-occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
-air like spray.
-
-Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
-hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
-and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
-waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
-linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
-there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
-but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
-tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
-and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
-to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
-come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
-
-The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
-the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
-in:
-
-“One hundred and five, North Tower!”
-
-There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
-with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
-stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
-across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
-on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
-the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
-
-“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
-Defarge to the turnkey.
-
-The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
-
-“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”
-
-“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
-
-“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
-with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
-wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
-a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
-me!”
-
-He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
-exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
-table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
-
-“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
-among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
- throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
-light higher, you!”
-
-With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
-peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
-and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
-and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
-in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
-into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
-cautious touch.
-
-“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”
-
-“Nothing.”
-
-“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
-them, you!”
-
-The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
-again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
-retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
-of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
-more.
-
-They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
-Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
-upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
-Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
-judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
-blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
-unavenged.
-
-In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
-encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
-decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
-woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
-“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
-remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
-the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
-close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
-be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
-long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
-when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
-upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.
-
-The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
-of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
-Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
-iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
-governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
-where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
-the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
-means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
-swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
-
-The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
-of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
-were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
-voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
-until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
-
-But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
-in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
-fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
-more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
-released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
-overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
-Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
-Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
-drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
-faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
-faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
-lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
-IT!”
-
-Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
-accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
-and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
-hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
-Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
-hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
-and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
-and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
-at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
-stained red.
-
-
-
-
-XXII. The Sea Still Rises
-
-
-Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
-his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
-the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
-Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
-Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
-Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
-themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
-portentously elastic swing with them.
-
-Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
-contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
-knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
-of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
-the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
-hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
-but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
-destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
-before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
-The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
-they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
-the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
-last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.
-
-Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
-to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
-sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
-grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
-already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
-
-“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”
-
-As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
-Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
-murmur came rushing along.
-
-“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”
-
-Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
-around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
- Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
-mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
-sprung to their feet.
-
-“Say then, my husband. What is it?”
-
-“News from the other world!”
-
-“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”
-
-“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
-that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”
-
-“Everybody!” from all throats.
-
-“The news is of him. He is among us!”
-
-“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”
-
-“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
-to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
-found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
-seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
-said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”
-
-Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
-never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
-could have heard the answering cry.
-
-A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
-steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
-was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
-
-“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”
-
-Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
-in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
-The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
-her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
-house, rousing the women.
-
-The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
-from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
-the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
-such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
-children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
-famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
-another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
-Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
-Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
-these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
-alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
-who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
-to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
-breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
-suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
-knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
-and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
-Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
-Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
-him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
-whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
-dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
-belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
-
-Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
-the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
-his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
-of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
-such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
-a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
-wailing children.
-
-No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
-this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
-open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
-and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
-from him in the Hall.
-
-“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
-with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
-Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
-under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
-
-The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
-her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
-others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
-clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
-and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
-expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
-a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
-wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
-to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
-telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
-
-At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
-protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
-too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
-stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
-him!
-
-It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
-had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
-wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
-her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
-had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
-perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
-out! Bring him to the lamp!”
-
-Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
-his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
-and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
-face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
-entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
-action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
-another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
-a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
-of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
-might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
-while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
-screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
-him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
-held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
-mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
-
-Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
-and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
-the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
-people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
-five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
-on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
-breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
-pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
-through the streets.
-
-Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
-wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
-long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
-they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
-embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
-again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
-frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
-slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
-common, afterwards supping at their doors.
-
-Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
-most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
-some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
-cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
-share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
-and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
-hoped.
-
-It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
-knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
-husky tones, while fastening the door:
-
-“At last it is come, my dear!”
-
-“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
-
-Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
-her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
-only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
-Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
-the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
-was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
-Antoine's bosom.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII. Fire Rises
-
-
-There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
-the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
-highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
-poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
-crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
-but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
-them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
-be what he was ordered.
-
-Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
-Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
-shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
-dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
-animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
-out.
-
-Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
-blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
-luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
-nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
-things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
-Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
-be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
-was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
-flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
-its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
-to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
-unaccountable.
-
-But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
-it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
-it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
-of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
-the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
-of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
-the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
-disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
-beautifying features of Monseigneur.
-
-For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
-dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
-to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
-thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
-he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
-and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
-foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
-a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
-without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
-aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
-mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
-highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
-with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
-
-Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
-as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
-could get from a shower of hail.
-
-The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
-and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
-in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
-intelligible:
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?”
-
-“All well, Jacques.”
-
-“Touch then!”
-
-They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
-
-“No dinner?”
-
-“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
-
-“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”
-
-He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
-steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
-it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
-thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
-
-“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
-time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
-
-“To-night?” said the mender of roads.
-
-“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
-
-“Where?”
-
-“Here.”
-
-He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
-one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
-of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
-
-“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
-
-“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
-here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”
-
-“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
-over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
-Well?”
-
-“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
-village.”
-
-“Good. When do you cease to work?”
-
-“At sunset.”
-
-“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
-resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
-wake me?”
-
-“Surely.”
-
-The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
-great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
-was fast asleep directly.
-
-As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
-away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
-by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
-now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
-heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
-his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
-The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
-red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
-beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
-and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
-of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
-footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
-with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
-leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
-sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
-secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
-with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
-Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
-drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
-this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
-looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
-obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
-
-The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
-brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
-of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
-them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
-the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
-to go down into the village, roused him.
-
-“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
-summit of the hill?”
-
-“About.”
-
-“About. Good!”
-
-The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
-according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
-squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
-appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
-When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
-as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
-curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
-together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
-looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
-chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
-alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
-chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
-the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
-to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
-
-The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
-solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
-the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
-flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
-swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
-the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
-stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
-had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
-heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
-branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
-lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
-was black again.
-
-But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
-visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
-Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
-picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
-and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
-Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
-stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
-
-A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
-there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
-spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
-space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
-Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
-impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
-mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
-with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
-sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.
-
-The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
-through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
-the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
-removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
-chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
-timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
-looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
-of lips, “It must burn.”
-
-As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
-village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
-fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
-lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
-every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
-occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
-Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
-that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
-authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
-and that post-horses would roast.
-
-The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
-raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
-infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
-and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
-torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
-two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
-again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
-and contending with the fire.
-
-The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
-scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
-figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
-lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
-dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
-heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
-splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
-birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
-trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
-roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
-destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
-abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.
-
-Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
-bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
-the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
-of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
-days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
-house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
-Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
-with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
-withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
-resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
-of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
-parapet, and crush a man or two below.
-
-Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
-distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
-combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
-ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
-which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
-A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
-the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
-Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
-rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
-and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
-while.
-
-Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
-other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
-the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
-had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
-less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
-functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
-in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
-North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
-The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
-no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
-successfully.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
-In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
-the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
-flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
-the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
-of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
-tissue of the life of her home.
-
-Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
-the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
-feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
-a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
-danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
-in.
-
-Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
-his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
-to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
-this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
-infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
-ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
-boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
-and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
-sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
-
-The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
-mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
-eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
-Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
-out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
-outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
-all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
-“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
-
-The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
-come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
-
-As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
-Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
-haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
-without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
-Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
-to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
-house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
-from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
-storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
-provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
-by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
-from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
-a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
-time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
-was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
-consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
-out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
-through Temple Bar to read.
-
-On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
-Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
-penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
-the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
-hour or so of the time of closing.
-
-“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
-Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”
-
-“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
-disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
-
-“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
-some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
-enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
-upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
-interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
-disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
-House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
-old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
-long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
-myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
-these years, who ought to be?”
-
-“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
-and like one thinking aloud.
-
-“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
-Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
-are a wise counsellor.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
-thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
-my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
-the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
-here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
-and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
-after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
-
-“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
-are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
-France at this time of day!”
-
-“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
-more to the purpose that you say you are.”
-
-“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
-glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
-conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
-of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
-Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
-of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
-might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
-afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
-with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
-getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
-precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
-I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
-bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
-the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
-
-“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
-the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
-Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
-impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
-to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
-whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
-every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
-the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
-as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
-
-“And do you really go to-night?”
-
-“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
-delay.”
-
-“And do you take no one with you?”
-
-“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
-to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
-bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
-Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
-of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
-master.”
-
-“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
-youthfulness.”
-
-“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
-commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
-live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
-
-This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
-Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
-would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
-much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
-was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
-terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
-the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
-omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
-millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
-should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
-years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
-vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
-restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
-and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
-without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
-such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
-in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
-already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
-
-Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
-way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
-to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
-them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
-accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
-of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
-with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
-going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
-word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
-
-The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
-before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
-whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
-that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
-name. The address, turned into English, ran:
-
-“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
-France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
-London, England.”
-
-On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
-express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
-be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
-between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
-suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
-
-“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
-I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
-gentleman is to be found.”
-
-The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
-was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
-held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
-person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
-it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
-and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
-English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
-
-“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
-polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
-knew him.”
-
-“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
-been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
-hay--“some years ago.”
-
-“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
-through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
-Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
-the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
-
-“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
-fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
-
-Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
-the shoulder, and said:
-
-“I know the fellow.”
-
-“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
-times.”
-
-“But I do ask why?”
-
-“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
-hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
-who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
-ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
-that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
-man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
-because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
-why.”
-
-Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
-said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”
-
-“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
-Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
-understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
-tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
-to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
-gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
-“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
-find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
-precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
-of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
-
-With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
-shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
-his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
-in the general departure from the Bank.
-
-“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
-deliver it?”
-
-“I do.”
-
-“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
-addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
-that it has been here some time?”
-
-“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
-
-“From here, at eight.”
-
-“I will come back, to see you off.”
-
-Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
-Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
-letter, and read it. These were its contents:
-
-
-“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
-
-“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
-
-“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
-village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
-brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
-great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
-ground.
-
-“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
-life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
-the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
-emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
-against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
-before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
-imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
-had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
-an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
-
-“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
-emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
-not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
-ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
-
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
-succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
-Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
-
-“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
-nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
-assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
-
-“Your afflicted,
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-
-The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
-by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
-only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
-reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
-considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
-
-He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
-the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
-resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
-conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
-he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
-his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
-mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
-systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
-do it, and that it had never been done.
-
-The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
-always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
-which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
-annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
-following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
-these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
-without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
-the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
-until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
-France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
-confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
-was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
-France that might impeach him for it.
-
-But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
-far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
-relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
-favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
-bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
-on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
-there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
-in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
-the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
-own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
-
-This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
-that he would go to Paris.
-
-Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
-him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
-to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
-him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
-attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
-worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
-could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
-trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
-and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
-him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
-brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
-(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
-which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
-coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
-letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
-justice, honour, and good name.
-
-His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
-
-Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
-struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
-with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
-it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
-gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
-it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
-sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
-saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
-Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
-
-As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
-neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
-Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
-reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
-should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
-the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
-situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
-to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
-discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
-in his course.
-
-He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
-return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
-in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
-nothing of his intention now.
-
-A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
-booted and equipped.
-
-“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
-would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
-perhaps you will take a verbal one?”
-
-“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”
-
-“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
-
-“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
-hand.
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
-
-“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
-
-“Any time mentioned?”
-
-“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
-
-“Any person mentioned?”
-
-“No.”
-
-He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
-and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
-misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
-Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
- Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
-rolled away.
-
-That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
-two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
-he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
-that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
-personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
-their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
-strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
-in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
-
-It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
-reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
-preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
-But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
-resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
-so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
-the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
-scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
-(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
-of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
-streets, with a heavier heart.
-
-The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
-and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
-two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
-midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
-his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
-floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
-
-
-The end of the second book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
-
-
-
-I. In Secret
-
-
-The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
-England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
-ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
-horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
-unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
-but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
-these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
-citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
-of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
-inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
-turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
-hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
-Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
-Death.
-
-A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
-Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
-was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
-at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
-Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
-the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
-the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
-watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
-or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
-felt his freedom more completely gone.
-
-This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
-times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
-riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
-by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
-days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
-a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
-
-Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
-prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
-guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
-to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
-a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
-had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
-
-Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
-red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
-
-“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
-under an escort.”
-
-“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
-dispense with the escort.”
-
-“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
-of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”
-
-“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
-are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”
-
-“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.
-
-“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
-not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”
-
-“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
-and dress yourself, emigrant.”
-
-Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
-patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
-a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
-started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.
-
-The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
-cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
-side of him.
-
-The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
-his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
-wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
-faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
-and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
-change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
-between them and the capital.
-
-They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
-lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
-that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
-shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
-being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
-as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
-his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
-that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
-he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
-of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
-confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
-
-But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
-when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
-himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
-gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
-out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”
-
-He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
-resuming it as his safest place, said:
-
-“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
-will?”
-
-“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
-furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
-aristocrat!”
-
-The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
-bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
-be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”
-
-“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
-as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.
-
-Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
-yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
-the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
-voice heard:
-
-“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
-traitor.”
-
-“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
-is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”
-
-At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
-another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
-horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
-and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
-struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
-more was done.
-
-“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
-postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
-
-“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”
-
-“When passed?”
-
-“On the fourteenth.”
-
-“The day I left England!”
-
-“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
-others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
-condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
-your life was not your own.”
-
-“But there are no such decrees yet?”
-
-“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
-may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”
-
-They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
-then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
-wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
-unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
-lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
-cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
-would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
-circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
-up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
-Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
-into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
-wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
-that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
-the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
-way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
-
-Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
-closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
-
-“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
-in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
-
-Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
-speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
-in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
-imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.
-
-“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
-whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
-
-The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
-eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
-disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
-
-He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
-into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
-gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
-Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
-patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
-into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
-traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
-people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
-to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
-forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
-filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
-their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
-ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
-about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
-and women.
-
-When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
-things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
-who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
-escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
-to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
-turned and rode away without entering the city.
-
-He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
-and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
-drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
-waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
-light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
-the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
-uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
-officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
-
-“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
-paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
-
-“This is the man.”
-
-“Your age, Evremonde?”
-
-“Thirty-seven.”
-
-“Married, Evremonde?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Where married?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
-Force.”
-
-“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
-
-The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
-
-“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
-said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
-
-“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
-to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
-demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
-my right?”
-
-“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
-wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
-sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”
-
-Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
-him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
-them.
-
-“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
-guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
-Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
-
-“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
-Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”
-
-“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”
-
-The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
-with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
-and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”
-
-“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
-truth?”
-
-“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
-looking straight before him.
-
-“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
-sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
-little help?”
-
-“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
-
-“Will you answer me a single question?”
-
-“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”
-
-“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
-communication with the world outside?”
-
-“You will see.”
-
-“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
-presenting my case?”
-
-“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
-in worse prisons, before now.”
-
-“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”
-
-Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
-and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
-there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
-He, therefore, made haste to say:
-
-“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
-than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
-Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
-the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
-prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”
-
-“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
-my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
-I will do nothing for you.”
-
-Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
-was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
-how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
-streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
-their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
-otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
-more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
-going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
-passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
-audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
-family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
-it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
-foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
-Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
-watchfulness had completely isolated him.
-
-That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
-developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
-perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
-yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
-might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
-of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
-the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
-was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
-hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
-rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
-garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
-been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
-called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
-of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
-probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
-they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
-
-Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
-from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
-certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
-his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
-arrived at the prison of La Force.
-
-A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
-presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”
-
-“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
-bloated face.
-
-Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
-with his two fellow-patriots.
-
-“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
-“How many more!”
-
-The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
-replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
-responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
-the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
-conclusion.
-
-The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
-horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
-flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
-are ill cared for!
-
-“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
-if I was not already full to bursting!”
-
-He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
-awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
-fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
-either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
-subordinates.
-
-“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
-emigrant.”
-
-Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
-corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
-until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
-prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
-and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
-most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
-room.
-
-In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
-disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
-unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
-receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
-all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
-
-So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
-gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
-misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
-in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
-of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
-frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
-waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
-that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
-
-It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
-gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
-in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
-coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
-there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
-mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
-likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
-utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
-of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
-
-“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
-gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
-honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
-on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
-happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
-to ask your name and condition?”
-
-Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
-words as suitable as he could find.
-
-“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
-eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”
-
-“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
-so.”
-
-“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
-members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
-but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
-the society--in secret.”
-
-There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
-to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
-which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
-him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
-render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
-the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
-
-The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
-ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
-them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
-solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
-
-“Yours,” said the gaoler.
-
-“Why am I confined alone?”
-
-“How do I know!”
-
-“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”
-
-“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
-present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”
-
-There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
-the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
-walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
-the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
-was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
-a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
-gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
-dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
-with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
-is the first condition of the body after death.”
-
-“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
-paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
-counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
-drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
-shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
-paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
-“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
-them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
-embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
-hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
-through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
-made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
-a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
-his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
-and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
-still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
-knew, in the swell that rose above them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Grindstone
-
-
-Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
-in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
-the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
-a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
-troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
-mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
-metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
-of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
-besides the cook in question.
-
-Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
-sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
-willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
-indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
-house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
-things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
-precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
-of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
-Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
-drinking brandy in its state apartments.
-
-A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
-would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
-For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
-said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
-over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
-Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
-linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
-night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
-Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
-the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
-also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
-provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
-exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
-taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
-
-What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
-lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
-Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
-and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
-Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
-the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
-a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
-prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
-deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
-room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.
-
-He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
-he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
-derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
-building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
-that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
-his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
-was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
-of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
-great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
-open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
-to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
-or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
-objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
-opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
-he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.
-
-From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
-the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
-in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
-nature were going up to Heaven.
-
-“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
-dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
-who are in danger!”
-
-Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
-“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
-irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
-clash again, and all was quiet.
-
-The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
-uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
-awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
-go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
-opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
-amazement.
-
-Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
-that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
-seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
-force and power to it in this one passage of her life.
-
-“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
-matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
-What is it?”
-
-With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
-out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”
-
-“Your husband, Lucie?”
-
-“Charles.”
-
-“What of Charles?”
-
-“Here.
-
-“Here, in Paris?”
-
-“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
-collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
-us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”
-
-The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
-bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
-came pouring into the courtyard.
-
-“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
-don't touch the blind!”
-
-The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
-said, with a cool, bold smile:
-
-“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
-a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
-France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
-touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
-My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
-barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
-knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
-told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
-dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
-terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
-having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
-this fatal place. What prison is he in?”
-
-“La Force!”
-
-“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
-your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
-do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
-I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
-you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
-to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
-instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
-room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
-two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
-delay.”
-
-“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
-nothing else than this. I know you are true.”
-
-The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
-key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
-partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
-looked out with him into the courtyard.
-
-Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
-enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
-people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
-had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
-there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
-
-But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
-
-The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
-men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
-the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
-the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
-False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
-hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
-howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
-sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
-forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
-held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
-blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
-struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
-fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
-the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
-sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
-over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
-upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
-and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
-and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
-sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
-the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
-of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
-as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
-of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
-their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
-given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
-
-All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
-any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
-were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
-explanation in his friend's ashy face.
-
-“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
-the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
-say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
-have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
-may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”
-
-Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
-and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
-
-His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
-confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
-carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
-For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
-the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
-surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
-linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
-cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
-kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
-the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.
-
-He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
-and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
-assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
-her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
-surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
-watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
-
-Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
-clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
-bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
-charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
-the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
-
-Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
-irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
-“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
-sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
-and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”
-
-Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
-Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
-from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
-besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
-to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
-the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
-Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
-the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
-climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
-dainty cushions.
-
-The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
-and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
-alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
-never given, and would never take away.
-
-
-
-
-III. The Shadow
-
-
-One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
-Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
-imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
-the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
-for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
-he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
-man of business.
-
-At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
-the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
-the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
-same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
-most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
-its dangerous workings.
-
-Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
-tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
-that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
-Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
-this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
-he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
-went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
-in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
-of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
-
-To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
-giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
-He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
-considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
-A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
-and heavily the day lagged on with him.
-
-It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
-was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
-do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
-man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
-addressed him by his name.
-
-“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”
-
-He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
-to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
-emphasis, the words:
-
-“Do you know me?”
-
-“I have seen you somewhere.”
-
-“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”
-
-Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
-Manette?”
-
-“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”
-
-“And what says he? What does he send me?”
-
-Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
-words in the Doctor's writing:
-
- “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
- I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
- from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.”
-
-It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
-
-“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
-this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”
-
-“Yes,” returned Defarge.
-
-Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
-way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
-courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
-
-“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
-the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
-
-“It is she,” observed her husband.
-
-“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
-they moved.
-
-“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
-It is for their safety.”
-
-Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
-at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
-The Vengeance.
-
-They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
-ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
-and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
-tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
-delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
-the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
-
- “DEAREST,--Take courage. I am well, and your father has
- influence around me. You cannot answer this.
- Kiss our child for me.”
-
-That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
-it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
-hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
-action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
-to its knitting again.
-
-There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
-the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
-neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
-eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
-
-“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
-risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
-trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
-to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
-may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
-reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
-upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”
-
-Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
-gruff sound of acquiescence.
-
-“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
-propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
-good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
-French.”
-
-The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
-match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
-appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
-whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
-_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
-Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
-
-“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
-first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
-were the finger of Fate.
-
-“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
-daughter, and only child.”
-
-The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
-threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
-kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
-shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
-threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.
-
-“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
-may go.”
-
-But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
-presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
-she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:
-
-“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
-help me to see him if you can?”
-
-“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
-down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
-who is my business here.”
-
-“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
-will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
-afraid of you than of these others.”
-
-Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
-Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
-collected his face into a sterner expression.
-
-“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
-Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
-influence?”
-
-“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
-breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
-much influence around him.”
-
-“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”
-
-“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
-have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
-my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
-of me. As a wife and mother!”
-
-Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
-turning to her friend The Vengeance:
-
-“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
-as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
-known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
-often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
-themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
-sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”
-
-“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.
-
-“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
-again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
-and mother would be much to us now?”
-
-She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
-went last, and closed the door.
-
-“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
-courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
-late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”
-
-“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
-shadow on me and on all my hopes.”
-
-“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
-little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”
-
-But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
-for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Calm in Storm
-
-
-Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
-absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
-kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
-not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
-know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
-ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
-darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
-tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
-the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
-some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
-which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
-scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
-found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
-brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
-to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
-to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
-had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
-years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
-body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
-man was Defarge.
-
-That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
-that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
-to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
-dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
-and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
-a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
-to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
-examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
-the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
-to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
-the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
-the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
-inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
-was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
-Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
-assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
-delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
-often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
-had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
-
-The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
-intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
-saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
-those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
-been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
-thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
-the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
-in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
-of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
-awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
-with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
-carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
-anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
-with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
-
-As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
-his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
-such dread experiences would revive the old danger.
-
-But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
-at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
-felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
-he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
-could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
-“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
-As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
-helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
-of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
-the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
-of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
-clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
-had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
-
-Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
-have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
-in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
-of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
-personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
-of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
-that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
-general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
-messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
-sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
-not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
-plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
-known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.
-
-This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
-sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
-Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
-but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
-time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
-and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
-Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
-that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
-ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
-that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
-trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
-and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
-affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
-rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
-curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
-natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
-couldn't be in better hands.”
-
-But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
-Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
-the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
-era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
-against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
-great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
-against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
-of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
-had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
-alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
-the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
-and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
-fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
-What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
-One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
-and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!
-
-There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
-measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
-time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
-count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
-of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
-unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
-head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
-head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
-widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
-
-And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
-all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
-revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
-revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
-which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
-any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
-with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
-these things became the established order and nature of appointed
-things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
-Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
-the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
-sharp female called La Guillotine.
-
-It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
-it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
-peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
-shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
-and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
-human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
-from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
-believed in where the Cross was denied.
-
-It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
-were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
-Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
-the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
-good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
-dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
-The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
-functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
-namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
-day.
-
-Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
-with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
-end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
-current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
-away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
-months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
-wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
-that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
-violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
-under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
-terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
-that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
-in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
-victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
-appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
-other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
-he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
-a Spirit moving among mortals.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wood-Sawyer
-
-
-One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
-sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
-husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
-tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
-women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
-old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
-daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
-and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
-Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
-bestow, O Guillotine!
-
-If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
-had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
-despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
-the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
-the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
-truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
-will always be.
-
-As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
-had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
-household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
-its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
-as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
-slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
-that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
-return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
-solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
-unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
-outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
-
-She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
-mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
-attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
-and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
-thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
-night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
-repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
-was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
-without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”
-
-They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
-father said to her, on coming home one evening:
-
-“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
-sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
-it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
-in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
-show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
-if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”
-
-“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”
-
-From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
-clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
-When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
-went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
-single day.
-
-It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
-of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
-end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
-her.
-
-“Good day, citizeness.”
-
-“Good day, citizen.”
-
-This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
-established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
-but, was now law for everybody.
-
-“Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“You see me, citizen!”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
-had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
-at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
-bars, peeped through them jocosely.
-
-“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.
-
-Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
-appeared.
-
-“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
-
-“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
-
-“Yes, dearest.”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
-call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
-comes!”
-
-The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
-
-“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
-Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
-Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
-family!”
-
-Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
-impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
-his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
-first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
-
-He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
-him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
-up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
-with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
-not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
-briskly fall to his sawing again.
-
-In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
-spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
-in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
-this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
-Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
-five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
-for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
-see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
-waited out the day, seven days a week.
-
-These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
-father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
-afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
-rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
-decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
-also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
-(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
-
-The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
-surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
-somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
-with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
-and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
-saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
-female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
-was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
-
-But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
-and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
-afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
-prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
-The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
-they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
-than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
-keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
-Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
-together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
-mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
-filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
-apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
-advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
-another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
-in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
-linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
-and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
-all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
-reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
-again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
-of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
-up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
-as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
-innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
-a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
-heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
-warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
-bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
-delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
-the disjointed time.
-
-This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
-bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
-fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
-
-“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
-had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
-
-“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
-frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”
-
-“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
-husband, and the mercies of these people--”
-
-“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
-the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
-kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
-
-“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
-
-“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
-
-“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
-“no.”
-
-A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
- from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
-Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
-
-“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
-and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
-“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-“For to-morrow!”
-
-“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
-to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
-before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
-that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
-Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”
-
-She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
-
-“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
-be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
-protection. I must see Lorry.”
-
-He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
-both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
-away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
-
-“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
-
-The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
-and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
-and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
-better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
-hold his peace.
-
-A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
-the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
-Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
-deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
-National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
-Fraternity, or Death!
-
-Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
-chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
-agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
-he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
-turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
-he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
-
-
-
-
-VI. Triumph
-
-
-The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
-Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
-read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
-standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
-inside there!”
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
-
-So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
-
-When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
-for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
-Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
-hundreds pass away so.
-
-His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
-to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
-list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
-names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
-summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
-guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
-where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
-arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
-creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
-scaffold.
-
-There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
-soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
-were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
-concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
-there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
-refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
-common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
-who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
-insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
-time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
-or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
-brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
-boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
-seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
-disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
-like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
-them.
-
-The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
-vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
-put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
-were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.
-
-His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
-and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
-at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
-usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
-honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
-without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
-spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
-anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
-the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
-knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
-knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
-her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
-he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
-remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
-his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
-in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
-himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
-be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
-the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
-in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
-Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
-wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
-Carmagnole.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
-as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
-which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
-decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
-the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
-
-“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”
-
-The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
-prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
-England?
-
-Undoubtedly it was.
-
-Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
-
-Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
-
-Why not? the President desired to know.
-
-Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
-to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
-his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
-acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
-England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
-
-What proof had he of this?
-
-He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
-Alexandre Manette.
-
-But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
-
-True, but not an English woman.
-
-A citizeness of France?
-
-Yes. By birth.
-
-Her name and family?
-
-“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
-sits there.”
-
-This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
-of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
-the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
-countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
-if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
-
-On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
-according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
-counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
-inch of his road.
-
-The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
-sooner?
-
-He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
-of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
-he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
-He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
-a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
-absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
-testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
-in the eyes of the Republic?
-
-The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
-bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
- until they left off, of their own will.
-
-The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
-that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
-to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
-but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
-the President.
-
-The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
-it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
-and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
-Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
-pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
-enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
-overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
-of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
-had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
-declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
-answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
-called Darnay.
-
-Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
-and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
-proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
-release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
-England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
-their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
-government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
-the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
-circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
-straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
-populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
-Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
-had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
-account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
-they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
-receive them.
-
-At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
-set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
-favour, and the President declared him free.
-
-Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
-sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
-generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
-their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
-these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
-to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
-was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
-at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
-prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
-his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
-exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
-people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
-the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
-streets.
-
-His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
-rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
-together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
-assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
-itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
-him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
-hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
-of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
-Republic!”
-
-The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
-for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
-crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
-Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
-concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
-turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
-which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
-shore.
-
-They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
-taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
-Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
-had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
-even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
-on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
-and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
-he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
-was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
-
-In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
-him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
-prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
-they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
-him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
-had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
-feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
-
-As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
-face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
-together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
-rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
-Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
-crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
-overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
-and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
-them away.
-
-After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
-before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
-breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
-after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
-his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
-lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
-rooms.
-
-“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
-
-“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
-prayed to Him.”
-
-They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
-his arms, he said to her:
-
-“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
-could have done what he has done for me.”
-
-She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
-head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
-had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
-strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
-tremble so. I have saved him.”
-
-
-
-
-VII. A Knock at the Door
-
-
-“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
-often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
-vague but heavy fear was upon her.
-
-All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
-revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
-vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
-many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
-her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
-heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
-The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
-the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
-them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
-his real presence and trembled more.
-
-Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
-woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
-no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
-he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
-them all lean upon him.
-
-Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
-the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
-because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
-had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
-the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
-partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
-citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
-occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
-Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
-night.
-
-It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
-Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
-house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
-of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
-Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
-below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
-himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
-employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
-Darnay.
-
-In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
-harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
-in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
-were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
-shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
-possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
-
-For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
-office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
-basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
-lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
-such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
-association with a French family, might have known as much of their
-language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
-direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
-pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
-was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
-introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
-the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
-of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
-made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
-one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
-
-“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
-“if you are ready, I am.”
-
-Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
-all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
-
-“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
-have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
-these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
-
-“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
- retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”
-
-“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
-Nick's.”
-
-“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
-meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
-and Mischief.”
-
-“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.
-
-“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
-among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
-smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
-streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
-Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
-pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
-May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”
-
-“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.
-
-“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
-that,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
-
-“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
-short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
-Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
-as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
-tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
-after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
-
-“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
-had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
-“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
-way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
-with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
-prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
-
-“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
-
-“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
-glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
-must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
-fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
-you move, Ladybird!”
-
-They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
-child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
-Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
-a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
-sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
-in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
-a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
-a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
-quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
-
-“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
-
-“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
-on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
-least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”
-
-“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
-and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
-
-“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
-
-As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
-
-“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
-
-“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
-shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
-to the door.”
-
-He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
-and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
-men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
-
-“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
-
-“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
-
-“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
-Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”
-
-The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
-to him.
-
-“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”
-
-“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
-know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
-stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
-moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
-the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
-woollen shirt, said:
-
-“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
-
-“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
-
-“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
-
-He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
-after a pause:
-
-“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
-the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
-had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
-
-The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
-
-“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
-
-“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
-more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
-a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
-The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”
-
-“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”
-
-“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
-Antoine here.”
-
-The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
-feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
-
-“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
-the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”
-
-“What other?”
-
-“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
-answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
-
-
-
-
-VIII. A Hand at Cards
-
-
-Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
-way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
-Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
-she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
-both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
-passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
-turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
-was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
-lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
-stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
-Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
-undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
-grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
-
-Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
-for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
-After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
-once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
-took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
-description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
-not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
-opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
-attended by her cavalier.
-
-Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
-playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
-bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
-the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
-resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
-popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
-like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
-the counter, and showed what they wanted.
-
-As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
-corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
-sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
-her hands.
-
-In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
-assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
-likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
-saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
-the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
-evidently English.
-
-What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
-voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
-Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
-ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
-not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
-Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
-account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.
-
-“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
-speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
-English.
-
-“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
-“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
-do I find you here!”
-
-“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
-man, in a furtive, frightened way.
-
-“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
-been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
-
-“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
-want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”
-
-Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
-affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”
-
-“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”
-
-Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
-word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
-through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
-so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
-of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
-language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
-pursuits.
-
-“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
-want?”
-
-“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
-from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
-affection.”
-
-“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
-lips with his own. “Now are you content?”
-
-Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
-
-“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
-surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
-you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
-do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
-am an official.”
-
-“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
-tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
-greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
-such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
-his--”
-
-“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
-the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
-as I am getting on!”
-
-“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
-rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
-loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
-and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
-detain you no longer.”
-
-Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
-culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
-ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
-her money and left her!
-
-He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
-condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
-merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
-all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
-hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
-question:
-
-“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
-or Solomon John?”
-
-The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
-previously uttered a word.
-
-“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
-was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
-calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
-you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
-name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
-was, over the water.”
-
-“No?”
-
-“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
-at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
-yourself, was you called at that time?”
-
-“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
-
-“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
-
-The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
-him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
-elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
-
-“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
-surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
-elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
-myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
-better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
-was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”
-
-Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
-who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
-
-“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
-of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
-an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
-faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
-a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
-the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
-direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
-sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
-conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
-nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
-to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“What purpose?” the spy asked.
-
-“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
-street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
-company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”
-
-“Under a threat?”
-
-“Oh! Did I say that?”
-
-“Then, why should I go there?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”
-
-“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
-
-“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”
-
-Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
-quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
-and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
-made the most of it.
-
-“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
-sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
-
-“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
-But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
-pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
-satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”
-
-“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”
-
-“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
-own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
-at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
-knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
-ready? Come then!”
-
-Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
-remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
-in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
-purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
-contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
-too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
-her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
-heed what she observed.
-
-They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
-Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
-Pross, walked at his side.
-
-Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
-little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
-picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
-into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
-ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
-which he saw a stranger.
-
-“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
-with the name--and with the face.”
-
-“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
-coolly. “Pray sit down.”
-
-As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
-by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
-immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
-look of abhorrence.
-
-“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
-brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
-relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”
-
-Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
-tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
-to return to him!”
-
-“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Just now, if at all.”
-
-“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
-have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
-over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
-messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
-earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
-of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
-might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
-silently attentive.
-
-“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
-Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
-would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”
-
-“Yes; I believe so.”
-
-“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
-to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
-power to prevent this arrest.”
-
-“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
-identified he is with his son-in-law.”
-
-“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
-chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.
-
-“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
-are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
-will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
-carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
-stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
-in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
-Barsad.”
-
-“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
-
-“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
-brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
-
-It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
-glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
-
-“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
-over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
-committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
-so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
-is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
-Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
-That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
-French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
-English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
-card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
-Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
-spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
-the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
-difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
-hand, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
-
-“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
-Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
-hurry.”
-
-He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
-drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
-into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
-poured out and drank another glassful.
-
-“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
-
-It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
-in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
-employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
-there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
-vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
-date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
-France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
-there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
-knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
-Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
-such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
-release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
-familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
-Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
-with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
-talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
-He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
-again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
-guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
-he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
-he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
-his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
-terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
-grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
-that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
-proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
-his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
-terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
-the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
-
-“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
-composure. “Do you play?”
-
-“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
-Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
-put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
-under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
-of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
-considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
-somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
-himself as to make himself one?”
-
-“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
-and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
-
-“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
-hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”
-
-“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
-relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“You think not, sir?”
-
-“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
-
-The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
-ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
-received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
-mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
-failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
-of contemplating cards:
-
-“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
-have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
-fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
-who was he?”
-
-“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
-
-“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
-at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”
-
-“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
-
-“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
-way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
-the face.”
-
-“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.
-
-“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
-glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
-French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”
-
-“Provincial,” said the spy.
-
-“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
-light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
-had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”
-
-“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
-aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
-me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
-distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
-attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
-of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
-multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
-to lay him in his coffin.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
-goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
-to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
-risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
-
-“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
-how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
-lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
-carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
-it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
-it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
-Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
-violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
-crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
-
-Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
-the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
-
-“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
-iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Who took him out of it?”
-
-Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”
-
-“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
-I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
-
-The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
-unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.
-
-“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
-that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
-take in. Me and two more knows it.”
-
-“How do you know it?”
-
-“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
-old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
-I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
-
-Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
-this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
-explain himself.
-
-“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
-ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
-wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
-in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
-throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
-quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”
-
-“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
-Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
-you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
-aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
-the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
-A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
-card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”
-
-“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
-with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
-of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
-he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
-man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
-
-“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
-Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
-that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
-be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
-liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
-guinea.”
-
-The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
-with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
-can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
-Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
-office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
-life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
-I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
-here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
-way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
-me?”
-
-“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”
-
-“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
- said the spy, firmly.
-
-“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
-Conciergerie?”
-
-“I am sometimes.”
-
-“You can be when you choose?”
-
-“I can pass in and out when I choose.”
-
-Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
-upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
-said, rising:
-
-“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
-the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
-into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Game Made
-
-
-While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
-dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
-at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
-manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
-leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
-and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
-questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
-his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
-hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
-infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
-of him.
-
-“What have you been, besides a messenger?”
-
-After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
-Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
-character.”
-
-“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
-at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
-as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
-description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
-get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
-Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
-
-“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
-yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
-would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
-is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
-it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
-to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
-up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
-fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
-yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
-their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
-out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
-Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
-goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
-in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
-a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
-ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
-it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
-and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
-undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
-with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
-much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
-prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
-all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
-once in--even if it wos so.”
-
-“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
-the sight of you.”
-
-“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
-“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”
-
-“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
-further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
-would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
-that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
-be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
-your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
-wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
-you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
-his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
-let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
-for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
-a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
-That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
-arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
-discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
-see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
-without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
-to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
-things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
-fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
-cause when I might have kep' it back.”
-
-“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
-that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
-action--not in words. I want no more words.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
-returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
-arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
-
-He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
-were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
-
-“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
-to him, once.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
-
-“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
-to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
-worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
-weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”
-
-“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
-Tribunal, will not save him.”
-
-“I never said it would.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
-darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
-weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
-and his tears fell.
-
-“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
-voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
-father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
-sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
-however.”
-
-Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
-was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
-that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
-unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
-
-“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
-interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
-him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
-to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
-see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
-evidently understood it.
-
-“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
-only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
-I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
-little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
-You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”
-
-“I am going now, directly.”
-
-“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
-on you. How does she look?”
-
-“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
-
-“Ah!”
-
-It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
-attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
-fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
-passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
-wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
-flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
-and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
-light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
-all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
-sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
-his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
-broken under the weight of his foot.
-
-“I forgot it,” he said.
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
-wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
-the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
-reminded of that expression.
-
-“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
-to him.
-
-“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
-unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
-have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
-my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”
-
-They were both silent.
-
-“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.
-
-“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”
-
-“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
-trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
-
-“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
-may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”
-
-“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
-you when you leave it empty!”
-
-“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
-is nobody to weep for me.”
-
-“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”
-
-“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”
-
-“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”
-
-“Surely, surely.”
-
-“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
-'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
-respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
-regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
-your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
-not?”
-
-“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”
-
-Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
-few moments, said:
-
-“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
-days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
-
-Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
-
-“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
-closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
-nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
-preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
-that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
-and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
-so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
-
-“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
-you are the better for it?”
-
-“I hope so.”
-
-Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
-his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
-are young.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
-age. Enough of me.”
-
-“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”
-
-“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
-habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
-uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”
-
-“Yes, unhappily.”
-
-“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
-place for me. Take my arm, sir.”
-
-Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
-few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
-there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
-again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
-the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
-“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
-her steps.”
-
-It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
-where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
-closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
-
-“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
-man eyed him inquisitively.
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“How goes the Republic?”
-
-“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
-to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
-exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
-
-“Do you often go to see him--”
-
-“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
-citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
-than two pipes. Word of honour!”
-
-As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
-how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
-to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
-
-“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
-English dress?”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
-
-“You speak like a Frenchman.”
-
-“I am an old student here.”
-
-“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
-him. “And take a pipe with you!”
-
-Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
-the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
-of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
-the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
-for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
-terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
-his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
-thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
-
-Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
-counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
-whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”
-
-Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
-
-“For you, citizen?”
-
-“For me.”
-
-“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
-consequences of mixing them?”
-
-“Perfectly.”
-
-Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
-one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
-and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
-glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”
-
-It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
-aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
-negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
-had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
-his road and saw its end.
-
-Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
-youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
-mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
-read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
-streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
-on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
-he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
-whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
-rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
-and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
-and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
-brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
-might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
-went on.
-
-With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
-going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
-surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
-were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
-of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
-profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
-the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
-along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
-material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
-the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
-interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
-short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
-the lighter streets.
-
-Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
-suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
-shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
-people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
-one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
-for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
-and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
-
-“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
-were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
-and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
-heard them always.
-
-The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
-water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
-picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
-of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
-sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
-and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
-Death's dominion.
-
-But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
-of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
-And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
-appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
-sparkled under it.
-
-The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
-friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
-houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
-bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
-longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
-stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”
-
-A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
-glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
-in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
-for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
-ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
-where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
-little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
-himself, went out to the place of trial.
-
-The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
-away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
-Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
-sitting beside her father.
-
-When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
-sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
-tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
-blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
-there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
-Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
-
-Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
-ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
-been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
-first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
-Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
-
-Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
-republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
-after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
-his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
-gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
-cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
-Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
-
-Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
-No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
-murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
-in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
-another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
-retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
-Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
-one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
-privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
-called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
-
-To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
-
-The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
-
-“Openly, President.”
-
-“By whom?”
-
-“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
-
-A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
-Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
-
-“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
-a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
-daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
-and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
-of my child!”
-
-“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
-the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
-to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
-Republic.”
-
-Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
-with warmth resumed.
-
-“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
-herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
-to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
-
-Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
-his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
-closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
-and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
-
-Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
-being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
-his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
-and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
-This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
-
-“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
-best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
-there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
-it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”
-
-It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
-thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
-Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
- wherein she was likewise much commended.
-
-“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
-citizen.”
-
-“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
-bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
-“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
-known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
-knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
-when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
-when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
-the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
-gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
-stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
-that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
-of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
-I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
-the President.”
-
-“Let it be read.”
-
-In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
-lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
-solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
-reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
-never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
-intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
-follows.
-
-
-
-
-X. The Substance of the Shadow
-
-
-“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
-afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
-cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
-it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
-in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
-place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
-and my sorrows are dust.
-
-“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
-difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
-with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
-has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
-noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
-solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
-mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
-truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
-be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
-
-“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
-twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
-part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
-at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
-School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
-fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
-might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
-voice called to the driver to stop.
-
-“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
-and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
-was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
-door and alight before I came up with it.
-
-“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
-conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
-I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
-younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
-and (as far as I could see) face too.
-
-“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
-physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
-has made a rising reputation in Paris?'
-
-“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
-graciously.'
-
-“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
-so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
-probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
-overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'
-
-“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
-were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
-They were armed. I was not.
-
-“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
-the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
-which I am summoned.'
-
-“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
-your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
-our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
-yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
-enter the carriage?'
-
-“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
-entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
-carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
-
-“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
-it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
-place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
-the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
-paper in its hiding-place.
-
- *****
-
-“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
-emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
-Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
-when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
-stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
-a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
-overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
-answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
-the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
-
-“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
-for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
-other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
-with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
-alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
-
-“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
-locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
-relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
-conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
-ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
-lying on a bed.
-
-“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
-past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
-her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
-all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
-scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
-and the letter E.
-
-“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
-for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
-edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
-in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
-her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
-corner caught my sight.
-
-“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
-and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
-wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
-words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
-twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
-to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
-would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
-would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
-order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
-pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
-
-“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'
-
-“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
-younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
-was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'
-
-“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
-
-“'A brother.'
-
-“'I do not address her brother?'
-
-“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'
-
-“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'
-
-“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'
-
-“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
-useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
-to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
-are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
-
-“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
-a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
-the table.
-
- *****
-
-“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
-lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
-poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
-
-“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.
-
-“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
-more.
-
-“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
-efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
-after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
-sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
-in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
-a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
-furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
-old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
-sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
-succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
-counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
-not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
-them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
-in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
-soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
-figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
-regular.
-
-“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
-the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
-before the elder said:
-
-“'There is another patient.'
-
-“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'
-
-“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
-
- *****
-
-“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
-was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
-to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
-there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
-the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
-pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
-and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
-this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
-captivity, as I saw them all that night.
-
-“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
-handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
-He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
-breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
-where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
-that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
-
-“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'
-
-“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
-
-“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
-The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
-before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
-without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
-brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
-ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
-as if he were a fellow-creature.
-
-“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.
-
-“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
-and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'
-
-“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
-answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
-have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
-have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
-vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
-the boy, or about his fate.
-
-“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
-slowly moved to me.
-
-“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
-proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
-we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'
-
-“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
-distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
-
-“I said, 'I have seen her.'
-
-“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
-Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
-have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
-so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
-tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
-The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
-
-“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
-to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
-
-“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
-are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
-work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
-to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
-for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
-plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
-ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
-people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
-and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
-dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
-most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
-race die out!'
-
-“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
-like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
-somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
-dying boy.
-
-“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
-poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
-him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
-been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
-her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
-us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
-hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
-then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
-willing?'
-
-“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
-looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
-opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
-Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
-trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
-
-“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
-harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
-drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
-grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
-may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
-night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
-not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
-could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
-bell, and died on her bosom.'
-
-“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
-tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
-he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
-wound.
-
-“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
-brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
-brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
-it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
-for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
-tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
-that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
-beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
-_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
-in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
-somewhere here?'
-
-“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
-him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
-over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
-
-“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
-dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
-at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
-make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
-that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
-at me with all his skill for his life.'
-
-“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
-a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
-another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
-
-“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
-
-“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
-referred to the brother.
-
-“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
-man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
-
-“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
-moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
-me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
-
-“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
-his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
-answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
-answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
-I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
-I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
-separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
-it.'
-
-“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
-forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
-finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
-down dead.
-
- *****
-
-“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
-in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
-for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
-grave.
-
-“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
-the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
-quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
-of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
-One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
-twelve. Hush!'
-
-“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
-come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
-falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
-by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
-
-“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
-fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
-compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
-her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
-a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
-had of her.
-
-“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
-elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
-
-“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
-
-“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
-at her with some curiosity.
-
-“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
-despair.'
-
-“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
-chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
-subdued voice,
-
-“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
-recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
-and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
-of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
-and not spoken of.'
-
-“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
-
-“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
-
-“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
-are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
-was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
-
-“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
-pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
-resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
-
- *****
-
-“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
-fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
-darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
-failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
-was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
-
-“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
-syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
-asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
-was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
-head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
-
-“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
-brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
-then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
-woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
-the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
-that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
-if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.
-
-“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
-brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
-peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
-of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
-to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
-brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
-for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
-me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
-in the mind of the elder, too.
-
-“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
-answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
-with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
-all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
-
-“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
-away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
-their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
-
-“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
-
-“'She is dead,' said I.
-
-“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
-
-“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
-gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
-the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
-nothing.
-
-“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
-
-“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
-them, and we parted without another word on either side.
-
- *****
-
-“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
-have written with this gaunt hand.
-
-“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
-little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
-considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
-to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
-summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
-circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
-of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
-heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
-profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
-in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
-I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
-compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
-
-“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
-night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
-It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
-completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
-
- *****
-
-“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
-so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
-dreadful.
-
-“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
-life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
-wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
-boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
-on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
-had seen that nobleman very lately.
-
-“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
-conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
-know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
-in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
-share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
-was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
-in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
-Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
-
-“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
-her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
-but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
-inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
-that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
-wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
-
- *****
-
-“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
-yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
-
-“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
-could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
-was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
-husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
-pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
-
-“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
-all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
-inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
-atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
-I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
-jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
-compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
-the sister can be discovered.'
-
-“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
-sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
-bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
-went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
-
-“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
-I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
-trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
-
-“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
-a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
-my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
-into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
-My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
-the gate, standing silent behind him.
-
-“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
-he had a coach in waiting.
-
-“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
-house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
-my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
-corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
-his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
-of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
-Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
-grave.
-
-“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
-brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
-my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
-dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
-now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
-they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
-last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
-night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
-when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
-and to earth.”
-
-A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
-sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
-blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
-and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
-
-Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
-how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
-Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
-time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
-anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
-The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
-sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
-
-And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
-well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
-of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
-the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
-self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
-said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
-physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
-rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
-a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
-orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
-human sympathy.
-
-“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
-smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”
-
-At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
-roar.
-
-Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
-of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
-Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
-
-
-
-
-XI. Dusk
-
-
-The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
-the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
-sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
-she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
-it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
-
-The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
-the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
-emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
-stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
-but love and consolation.
-
-“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
-you would have so much compassion for us!”
-
-There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
-taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
-show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
-him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
-passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
-leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
-
-“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
-shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
-
-They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
-
-“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
-for me. A parting blessing for our child.”
-
-“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
-you.”
-
-“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
-“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
-by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
-will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”
-
-Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
-of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
-
-“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
-to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
-you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
-know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
-her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
-duty. Heaven be with you!”
-
-Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
-and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
-
-“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
-together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
-discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
-near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
-nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
-bless you!”
-
-As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
-with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
-with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
-smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
-lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
-feet.
-
-Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
-Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
-with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
-Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
-flush of pride in it.
-
-“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”
-
-He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
-coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
-beside the driver.
-
-When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
-many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
-the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
-the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
-her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
-
-“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
-better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
-
-“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
-throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
-you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
-save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
-love her, bear to see her so?”
-
-He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
-put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
-
-“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
-
-It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
-with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
-him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
-handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
-
-When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
-and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
-
-“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
-be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
-you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
-
-“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
-strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
-answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
-
-“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
-and short, but try.”
-
-“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
-
-“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
-now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
-great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
-it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
-were not.”
-
-“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
-straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
-write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
-one will be accessible until dark.”
-
-“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
-forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
-speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
-these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”
-
-“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
-this.”
-
-“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
-go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
-our friend or from yourself?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“May you prosper!”
-
-Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
-shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
-
-“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
-
-“Nor have I.”
-
-“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
-him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
-to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
-court.”
-
-“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
-
-Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
-
-“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
-Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
-consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
-thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
-
-“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
-But he will perish; there is no real hope.”
-
-“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.
-
-And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-XII. Darkness
-
-
-Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
-Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
-do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
-these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
-precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
-Let me think it out!”
-
-Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
-turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
-in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
-confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
-should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
-towards Saint Antoine.
-
-Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
-the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
-well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
-its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
-at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
-first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
-had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
-dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
-done with it.
-
-It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
-into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
-stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
-the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
-his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.
-
-There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
-restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
-the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
-Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
-a regular member of the establishment.
-
-As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
-French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
-glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
-to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
-
-He repeated what he had already said.
-
-“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
-eyebrows.
-
-After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
-slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
-accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”
-
-Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
-took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
-meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”
-
-Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
-
-“How?”
-
-“Good evening.”
-
-“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
-drink to the Republic.”
-
-Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
- Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
-pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
- The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
-are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
-to-morrow!”
-
-Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
-forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
-their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
-of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
-disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
-their conversation.
-
-“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
-is great force in that. Why stop?”
-
-“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
-the question is still where?”
-
-“At extermination,” said madame.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
-approved.
-
-“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
-troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
-suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
-the paper was read.”
-
-“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
-“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
-face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”
-
-“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
-“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
-
-“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
-his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
-have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
-I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
-finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
-his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
-if the axe had dropped.
-
-“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.
-
-“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
-
-“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
-depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
-man even now.”
-
-“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
-would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”
-
-“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
-too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
-tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
-doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.
-
-“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
-this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
-night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
-by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge.
-
-“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
-burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
-those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
-that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge again.
-
-“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
-hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
-among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
-by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
-family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
-was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
-was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
-those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
-descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.
-
-“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
-tell me.”
-
-Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
-of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
-her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
-a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
-only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
-the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”
-
-Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
-paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
-a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
-took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
-The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
-be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
-deep.
-
-But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
-prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
-himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
-walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
-until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
-keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
-banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
-mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
-more than five hours gone: where could he be?
-
-Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
-he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
-should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
-In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
-
-He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
-did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
-brought none. Where could he be?
-
-They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
-weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
-the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
-lost.
-
-Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
-time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
-them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
-
-“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”
-
-His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
-straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
-
-“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
-can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
-finish those shoes.”
-
-They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
-
-“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
-work. Give me my work.”
-
-Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
-ground, like a distracted child.
-
-“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
-cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
-not done to-night?”
-
-Lost, utterly lost!
-
-It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
-that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
-soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
-have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
-embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
-time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
-the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
-
-Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
-of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
-daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
-too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
-one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
-
-“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
-to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
-me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
-exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”
-
-“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”
-
-The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
-rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
-they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
-night.
-
-Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
-feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
-carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
-took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
-at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
-exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”
-
-“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
-
-“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
-his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
-enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
-an Englishman?”
-
-Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
-
-“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
-remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
-Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
-and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
-frontier! You see?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
-yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
-up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
-within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
-good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
-think, will be.”
-
-“They are not in danger?”
-
-“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
-Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
-woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
-colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
-confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
-is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
-Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
-name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
-the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
-involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
-both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
-will save them all.”
-
-“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”
-
-“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
-on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
-until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
-more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
-mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
-father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
-inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
-strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”
-
-“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
-the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
-of this distress.”
-
-“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
-as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
-completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
-horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
-afternoon.”
-
-“It shall be done!”
-
-His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
-flame, and was as quick as youth.
-
-“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
-Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
-and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
-beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
-on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
-the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
-her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
-depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
-father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
-
-“I am sure of it.”
-
-“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
-the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
-The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
-
-“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”
-
-“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
-reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
-then for England!”
-
-“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
-hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
-and ardent man at my side.”
-
-“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
-influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
-another.”
-
-“Nothing, Carton.”
-
-“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
-any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
-inevitably be sacrificed.”
-
-“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”
-
-“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”
-
-Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
-put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
-helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
-as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
-where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
-to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
-courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
-the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
-it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
-there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
-her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
-Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. Fifty-two
-
-
-In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
-their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
-to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
-everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
-were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
-the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
-apart.
-
-Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
-whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
-poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
-in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
-and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
-intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
-without distinction.
-
-Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
-flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
-of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
-fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
-that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
-avail him nothing.
-
-Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
-before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
-was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
-and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
-when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
-this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
-a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
-resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
-child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
-selfish thing.
-
-But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
-was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
-road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
-him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
-enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
-by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
-thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
-
-Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
-travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
-of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
-prison lamps should be extinguished.
-
-He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
-of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
-and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
-responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
-already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
-he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
-her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
-had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
-for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
-become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
-to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
-that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
-preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
-he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
-mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
-discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
-besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
-her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
-of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
-reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
-sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
-blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
-dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
-father.
-
-To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
-father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
-he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
-despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
-tending.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
-That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
-attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
-full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
-
-He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
-he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
-
-But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
-forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
-nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
-heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
-he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
-suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
-was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
-sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
-flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
-
-Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
-were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
-meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
-thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
-
-He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
-high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
-stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
-red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
-or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
-directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
-times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
-fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
-to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
-few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
-the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
-
-The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
-numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
-ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
-contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
-him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
-repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
-He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
-himself and for them.
-
-Twelve gone for ever.
-
-He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
-be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
-and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
-before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
-interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
-
-Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
-different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
-he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
-measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
-recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
-turned to walk again.
-
-Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
-
-The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
-as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
-me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
-no time!”
-
-The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
-face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
-features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
-
-There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
-first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
-imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
-hand, and it was his real grasp.
-
-“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
-
-“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
-are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”
-
-“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
-here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
-wife, dear Darnay.”
-
-The prisoner wrung his hand.
-
-“I bring you a request from her.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
-in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
-remember.”
-
-The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
-
-“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
-no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
-wear, and draw on these of mine.”
-
-There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
-Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
-him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
-
-“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
-them. Quick!”
-
-“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
-will only die with me. It is madness.”
-
-“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
-to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
-that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
-it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
-this of mine!”
-
-With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
-that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
-The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
-
-“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
-can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
-not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
-
-“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
-refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
-steady enough to write?”
-
-“It was when you came in.”
-
-“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”
-
-Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
-Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
-
-“Write exactly as I speak.”
-
-“To whom do I address it?”
-
-“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.
-
-“Do I date it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
-his hand in his breast, looked down.
-
-“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
-between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
-You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”
-
-He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
-up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
-something.
-
-“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.
-
-“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”
-
-“No; I am not armed.”
-
-“What is it in your hand?”
-
-“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
-dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
-them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
-words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
-moved down close to the writer's face.
-
-The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
-him vacantly.
-
-“What vapour is that?” he asked.
-
-“Vapour?”
-
-“Something that crossed me?”
-
-“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
-and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
-
-As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
-prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
-with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
-hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
-
-“Hurry, hurry!”
-
-The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
-
-“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
-softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
-If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
-should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
-otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
-unintelligible signs.
-
-Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
-with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
-nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
-seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
-life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
-the ground.
-
-Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
-dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
-his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
-softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.
-
-“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
-insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
-great?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
-hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
-the whole of your bargain.”
-
-“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”
-
-“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
-made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”
-
-“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
-rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
-take me to the coach.”
-
-“You?” said the Spy nervously.
-
-“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
-you brought me in?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
-take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
-happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
-Quick! Call assistance!”
-
-“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
-last moment.
-
-“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
-solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
-moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
-him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
-yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
-last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
-
-The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
-forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
-
-“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
-afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
-Sainte Guillotine?”
-
-“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
-if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
-
-They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
-brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
-
-“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.
-
-“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
-you, and leave me.”
-
-“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”
-
-The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
-listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
-suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
-footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
-made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
-sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
-
-Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
-began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
-finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
-saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
-at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
-within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
-the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
-standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
-but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
-fixedly at the ground.
-
-As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
-were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
-as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
-discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
-woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
-no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
-the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
-
-“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
-poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”
-
-He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”
-
-“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
-likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
-like me?”
-
-The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
-started from his eyes.
-
-“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
-am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
-to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
-Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
-
-As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
-warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
-
-“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”
-
-“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
-
-“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
-hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
-more courage.”
-
-As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
-them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
-fingers, and touched his lips.
-
-“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
-
-“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
-
-“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
-
-“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
-
- *****
-
-The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
-same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
-it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
-
-“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
-
-The papers are handed out, and read.
-
-“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
-
-This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
-pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
-Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
-
-Greatly too much for him.
-
-“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
-
-This is she.
-
-“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”
-
-It is.
-
-“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
-This is she?”
-
-She and no other.
-
-“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
-something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
-English. Which is he?”
-
-He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”
-
-It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
-he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
-under the displeasure of the Republic.
-
-“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
-displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
-Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”
-
-“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”
-
-It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
-is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
-door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
-carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
-carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
-the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
-mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
-an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
-
-“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”
-
-“One can depart, citizen?”
-
-“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”
-
-“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”
-
-These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
-looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
-is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
-
-“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
- asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
-
-“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
-it would rouse suspicion.”
-
-“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
-
-“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”
-
-Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
-dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
-trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
-either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
-stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
-sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
-wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
-anything but stopping.
-
-Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
-farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
-avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
-by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
-no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
-the posting-house.
-
-Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
-the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
-of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
-existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
-plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
-their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
-All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
-far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
-
-At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
-behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
-on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
-animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
-haunches. We are pursued?
-
-“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”
-
-“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
-
-“How many did they say?”
-
-“I do not understand you.”
-
-“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”
-
-“Fifty-two.”
-
-“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
-forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
-handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”
-
-The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
-to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
-by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
-us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
-
-The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
-the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
-us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Knitting Done
-
-
-In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
-Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
-Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
-erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
-conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
-was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
-
-“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
-Republican? Eh?”
-
-“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
-notes, “in France.”
-
-“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
-a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
-fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
-well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
-his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”
-
-“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
-with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
-citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
-
-“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
-his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
-me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
-child must follow the husband and father.”
-
-“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
-eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
-them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
-
-Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
-
-“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
-of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
-there. It is a pretty sight!”
-
-“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
-“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
-last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
-but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
-and then they might escape.”
-
-“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
-have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”
-
-“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
-pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
-regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
-therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
-submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
-
-“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
-“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
-this very day?”
-
-“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
-two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
-without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”
-
-He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
-imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
-never seen.
-
-“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”
-
-“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
-eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
-
-“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
-fellow-Jurymen.”
-
-“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
-Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
-I spare him?”
-
-“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
-“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”
-
-“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
-cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
-trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
-bad witness.”
-
-The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
-protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
-witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
-celestial witness.
-
-“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
-him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
-to-day executed.--You?”
-
-The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
-the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
-of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
-Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
-smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
-barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
-suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
-him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
-for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
-
-“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
-over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
-will give information against these people at my Section.”
-
-The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
-citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
-her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
-hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
-
-Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
-the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
-
-“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
-be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
-justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
-I will go to her.”
-
-“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
-Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
-embraced her.
-
-“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
-lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
-me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
-greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
-
-“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
-alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”
-
-“I shall be there before the commencement.”
-
-“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
-The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
-street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
-
-Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
-might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
-mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
-Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
-of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
-
-There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
-disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
-than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
-strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
-determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
-to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
-instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
-heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
-with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
-opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
-pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
-her.
-
-It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
-his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
-his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
-insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
-her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
-hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
-been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
-she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
-been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
-softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
-sent her there.
-
-Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
-worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
-dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
-bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
-dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
-a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
-walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
-sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
-
-Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
-waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
-the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
-attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
-but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
-it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
-escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
-Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
-and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
-three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
-Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
-passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
-advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
-of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
-
-Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
-pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
-beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
-passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
-their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
-taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
-else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
-
-“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
-was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
-“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
-carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
-suspicion.”
-
-“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
-wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
-
-“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
-Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
-_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”
-
-“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
-hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
-mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
-two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
-crisis?”
-
-“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
-them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
-
-“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
-an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
-more will I do it, never no more!”
-
-“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
-never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
-necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
-
-“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
-poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
-Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
-
-“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
-striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
-is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
-superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”
-
-“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
-most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
-be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
-opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
-hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
-time.”
-
-“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
-Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
-
-“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
-additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
-out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
-earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
-flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
-risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
-conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
-
-And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
-nearer and nearer.
-
-“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
-upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
-understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
-you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
-earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
-Cruncher, let us think!”
-
-Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
-and nearer.
-
-“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
-horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
-that be best?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
-
-“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
-Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
-Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
-
-“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
-the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
-towers?”
-
-“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
-straight, and make that change.”
-
-“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
-“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”
-
-“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
-Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
-and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
-of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
-that may depend on both of us!”
-
-This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
-clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
-immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
-to follow as she had proposed.
-
-The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
-execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
-her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
-streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
-minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
-
-Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
-rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
-in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
-which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
-could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
-dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
-was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
-out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
-
-The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
-Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
-those feet had come to meet that water.
-
-Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
-where is she?”
-
-It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
-and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
-four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
-the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
-
-Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
-and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
-about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
-of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
-way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
-
-“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
-Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
-me. I am an Englishwoman.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
-Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
-hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
-woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
-Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
-that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
-
-“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
-her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
-knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
-wish to see her.”
-
-“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
-depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”
-
-Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
-both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
-the unintelligible words meant.
-
-“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
-moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
-Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”
-
-“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
-was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
-you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”
-
-Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
-detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
-at naught.
-
-“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
-answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
-to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
- This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
-
-“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
-understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
-except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
-part of it.”
-
-Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
-Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
-first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
-
-“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
-English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
-greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
-dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
-
-Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
-between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
-Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
-
-But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
-irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
-Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
-laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
-Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
-of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
-answer the Citizeness Defarge!”
-
-Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
-expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
-either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
-Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
-
-“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
-are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
-you! Let me look.”
-
-“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
-Madame Defarge understood the answer.
-
-“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
-brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.
-
-“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
-uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
-know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
-that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”
-
-“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
-I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
-Madame Defarge.
-
-“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
-not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
-while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
-my darling,” said Miss Pross.
-
-Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
-moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
-It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
-with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
-clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
-that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
-face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
-clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
-
-Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
-waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
-shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
-you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
-
-Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
-what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
-alone--blinded with smoke.
-
-All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
-stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
-whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
-
-In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
-body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
-fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
-what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
-go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
-get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
-out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
-away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
-and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
-
-By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
-gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
-was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
-like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
-gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
-dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
-hundred ways.
-
-In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
-at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
-she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
-it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
-discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
-charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
-escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
-
-“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
-question and by her aspect.
-
-“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”
-
-It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
-not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
-all events she'll see that.” And she did.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
-presently.
-
-Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
-
-“I don't hear it.”
-
-“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
-much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
-
-“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
-and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”
-
-“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
-more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
-Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”
-
-“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
-my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
-and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
-broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
-
-“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
-journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
-opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
-
-And indeed she never did.
-
-
-
-
-XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
-tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
-insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
-are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
-France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
-a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
-conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
-humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
-twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
-rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
-the same fruit according to its kind.
-
-Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
-they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
-the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
-toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
-house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
-No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
-of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
-into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
-the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
-form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
- Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
-
-As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
-a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
-are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
-So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
-in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
-hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
-the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
-then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
-curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
-tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
-
-Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
-things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
-a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
-drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
-heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
-they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
-and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
-he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
-drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
-number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
-
-There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
-and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
-question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
-always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
-horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
-their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
-at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
-mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
-no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
-girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
-against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
-shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
-touch his face, his arms being bound.
-
-On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
-the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
-He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
-sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
-
-“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
-
-“That. At the back there.”
-
-“With his hand in the girl's?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
-Down, Evremonde!”
-
-“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
-
-“And why not, citizen?”
-
-“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
-Let him be at peace.”
-
-But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
-Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
-Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
-
-The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
-populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
-end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
-close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
-to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
-public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
-fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
-
-“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
-Defarge!”
-
-“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
-
-“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”
-
-“Louder,” the woman recommends.
-
-Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
-thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
-it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
-lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
-deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
-enough to find her!
-
-“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
-here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
-she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
-her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”
-
-As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
-begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
-robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
-scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
-think and speak, count One.
-
-The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
-the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
-
-The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
-after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
-still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
-crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
-his face and thanks him.
-
-“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
-naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
-able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
-have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
-Heaven.”
-
-“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
-and mind no other object.”
-
-“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
-it go, if they are rapid.”
-
-“They will be rapid. Fear not!”
-
-The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
-if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
-heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
-and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
-together, and to rest in her bosom.
-
-“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
-am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”
-
-“Tell me what it is.”
-
-“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
-love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
-farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
-nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
-tell her! It is better as it is.”
-
-“Yes, yes: better as it is.”
-
-“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
-thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
-much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
-and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
-live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
-
-“What then, my gentle sister?”
-
-“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
-endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
-“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
-where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”
-
-“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”
-
-“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
-moment come?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
-The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
-a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
-him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
-
-“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me shall never die.”
-
-The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
-on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
-forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
-Twenty-Three.
-
- *****
-
-They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
-peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
-sublime and prophetic.
-
-One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
-at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
-write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
-utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
-
-“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
-long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
-the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
-out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
-rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
-their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
-of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
-birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
-
-“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
-prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
-Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
-aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
-healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
-friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
-tranquilly to his reward.
-
-“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
-their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
-for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
-course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
-that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
-than I was in the souls of both.
-
-“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
-winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
-winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
-light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
-fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
-with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
-look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
-tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
-
-“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
-far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: A Tale of Two Cities
- A Story of the French Revolution
-
-Author: Charles Dickens
-
-Release Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]
-Posting Date: November 28, 2009
-Last Updated: March 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Judith Boss
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-A TALE OF TWO CITIES
-
-A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
-
-By Charles Dickens
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
- Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
- Chapter I The Period
- Chapter II The Mail
- Chapter III The Night Shadows
- Chapter IV The Preparation
- Chapter V The Wine-shop
- Chapter VI The Shoemaker
-
-
- Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
- Chapter I Five Years Later
- Chapter II A Sight
- Chapter III A Disappointment
- Chapter IV Congratulatory
- Chapter V The Jackal
- Chapter VI Hundreds of People
- Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town
- Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country
- Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head
- Chapter X Two Promises
- Chapter XI A Companion Picture
- Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy
- Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy
- Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman
- Chapter XV Knitting
- Chapter XVI Still Knitting
- Chapter XVII One Night
- Chapter XVIII Nine Days
- Chapter XIX An Opinion
- Chapter XX A Plea
- Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps
- Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises
- Chapter XXIII Fire Rises
- Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
- Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
- Chapter I In Secret
- Chapter II The Grindstone
- Chapter III The Shadow
- Chapter IV Calm in Storm
- Chapter V The Wood-sawyer
- Chapter VI Triumph
- Chapter VII A Knock at the Door
- Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards
- Chapter IX The Game Made
- Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow
- Chapter XI Dusk
- Chapter XII Darkness
- Chapter XIII Fifty-two
- Chapter XIV The Knitting Done
- Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
-
-
-
-I. The Period
-
-
-It was the best of times,
-it was the worst of times,
-it was the age of wisdom,
-it was the age of foolishness,
-it was the epoch of belief,
-it was the epoch of incredulity,
-it was the season of Light,
-it was the season of Darkness,
-it was the spring of hope,
-it was the winter of despair,
-we had everything before us,
-we had nothing before us,
-we were all going direct to Heaven,
-we were all going direct the other way--
-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
-its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
-evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-
-There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
-throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
-a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
-than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
-that things in general were settled for ever.
-
-It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
-as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
-blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
-heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
-made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
-ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
-messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
-deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
-earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
-from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
-to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
-communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
-brood.
-
-France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
-sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
-hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
-Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
-achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
-torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
-kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
-which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
-yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
-Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
-already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
-boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
-it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
-of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
-sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
-rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
-the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
-the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
-unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
-with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
-that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
-
-In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
-justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
-highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
-families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
-their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
-in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
-challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
-“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
-mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
-then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
-failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
-that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
-and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
-illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
-gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
-fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
-thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
-Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
-for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
-musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
-much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
-and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
-up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
-Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
-hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
-Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
-and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
-sixpence.
-
-All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
-upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
-those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
-fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
-with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
-and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
-creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
-roads that lay before them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Mail
-
-
-It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
-before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
-The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
-Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
-as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
-for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
-and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
-horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
-coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
-to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
-combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
-otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
-are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
-their duty.
-
-With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
-the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
-falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
-them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
-near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
-unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
-hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
-nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
-
-There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
-forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
-none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
-air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
-waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
-everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
-and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
-into it, as if they had made it all.
-
-Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
-side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
-ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
-anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
-hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
-the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
-were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
-the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
-when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
-“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
-non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
-of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
-thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
-he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
-and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
-loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
-deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
-
-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
-the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
-all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
-the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
-taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
-journey.
-
-“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
-top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
-it!--Joe!”
-
-“Halloa!” the guard replied.
-
-“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”
-
-“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
-
-“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
-yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
-
-The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
-made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
-suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
-passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
-stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
-had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
-into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
-getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
-
-The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
-stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
-the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
-
-“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
-box.
-
-“What do you say, Tom?”
-
-They both listened.
-
-“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”
-
-“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
-of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
-name, all of you!”
-
-With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
-the offensive.
-
-The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
-the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
-remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
-in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
-and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
-back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
-his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
-
-The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
-of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
-indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
-the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
-passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
-quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
-the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
-
-The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
-
-“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
-I shall fire!”
-
-The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
-a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”
-
-“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Why do you want to know?”
-
-“I want a passenger, if it is.”
-
-“What passenger?”
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”
-
-Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
-the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
-
-“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
-“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
-your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”
-
-“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
-speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”
-
-(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
-himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)
-
-“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“What is the matter?”
-
-“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”
-
-“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
-road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
-passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
-pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
-
-“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
-guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”
-
-“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
-
-“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
-saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
-at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
-now let's look at you.”
-
-The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
-and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
-stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
-a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
-rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
-the man.
-
-“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
-
-The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
-blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
-answered curtly, “Sir.”
-
-“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
-know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
-to drink. I may read this?”
-
-“If so be as you're quick, sir.”
-
-He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
-read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
-It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
-TO LIFE.”
-
-Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
- said he, at his hoarsest.
-
-“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
-well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”
-
-With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
-all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
-their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
-pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
-the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
-
-The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
-it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
-in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
-having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
-looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
-few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
-furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
-and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
-himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
-and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
-five minutes.
-
-“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.
-
-“Hallo, Joe.”
-
-“Did you hear the message?”
-
-“I did, Joe.”
-
-“What did you make of it, Tom?”
-
-“Nothing at all, Joe.”
-
-“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
-myself.”
-
-Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
-only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
-shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
-holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
-heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
-hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
-hill.
-
-“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
-fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
-glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
-message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
-be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
-Jerry!”
-
-
-
-
-III. The Night Shadows
-
-
-A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
-constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
-solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
-one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
-room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
-heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
-its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
-awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
-turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
-to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
-water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
-of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
-book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
-but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
-eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
-in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
-my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
-consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
-individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
-any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
-a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
-innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
-
-As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
-messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
-first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
-three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
-coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
-been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
-breadth of a county between him and the next.
-
-The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
-ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
-own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
-assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
-no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
-were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
-far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
-a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
-throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
-for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
-poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
-muffled again.
-
-“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
-“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
-suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
-been a drinking!”
-
-His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
-times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
-which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
-over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
-so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
-wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
-have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
-
-While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
-watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
-was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
-night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
-shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
-They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
-
-What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
-its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
-likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
-their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
-
-Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
-passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
-lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
-and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
-jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
-coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
-bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
-stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
-and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
-all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
-the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
-stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
-little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
-them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
-safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
-
-But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
-(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
-always with him, there was another current of impression that never
-ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
-out of a grave.
-
-Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
-was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
-not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
-years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
-and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
-defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
-so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
-and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
-prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
-spectre:
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-“You know that you are recalled to life?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”
-
-The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
-the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
- Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
-“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
-was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”
-
-After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
-and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
-hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
-hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
-passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
-reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
-
-Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
-patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
-by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
-of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
-real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
-sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
-of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
-it again.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
-passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
-securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
-slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
-slid away into the bank and the grave.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
-his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
-passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
-shadows of the night were gone.
-
-He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
-ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
-last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
-in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
-upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
-and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
-
-“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
-Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
-
-
-
-
-IV. The Preparation
-
-
-When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
-the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
-custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
-from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
-traveller upon.
-
-By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
-congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
-roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
-and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
-like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
-of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
-muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
-
-“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
-
-“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
-tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
-sir?”
-
-“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”
-
-“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
-Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
-gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
-Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”
-
-The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
-mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
-head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
-Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
-all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
-drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
-loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
-and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
-brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
-square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
-his breakfast.
-
-The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
-in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
-with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
-that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
-
-Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
-loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
-as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
-evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
-of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
-fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
-wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
-head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
-looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
-His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
-was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
-beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
-face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
-quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
-their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
-reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
-cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
-But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
-principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
-second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
-
-Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
-Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
-and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
-
-“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
-time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
-gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
-their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
-vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”
-
-“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
-sir?”
-
-“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
-from France.”
-
-“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
-time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
-Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
-years ago?”
-
-“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
-the truth.”
-
-“Indeed, sir!”
-
-Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
-table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
-dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
-he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
-immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
-
-When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
-the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
-from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
-ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
-wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
-destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
-brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
-a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
-dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
-fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
-night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
-made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
-sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
-that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
-
-As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
-at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
-again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
-too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
-his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
-digging, digging, in the live red coals.
-
-A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
-harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
-Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
-glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
-ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
-got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
-street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
-
-He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.
-
-In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
-had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
-Tellson's.
-
-“So soon?”
-
-Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
-then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
-immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
-
-The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
-glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
-wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
-It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
-horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
-oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
-were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
-graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
-from them until they were dug out.
-
-The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
-way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
-the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
-candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
-the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
-and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
-his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
-hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
-a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
-it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
-not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
-fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
-eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
-of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
-Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
-high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
-the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
-procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
-offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
-feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
-
-“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
-little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
-
-“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
-date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
-
-“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
-some intelligence--or discovery--”
-
-“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
-
-“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
-long dead--”
-
-Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
-hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
-anybody in their absurd baskets!
-
-“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
-with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
-the purpose.”
-
-“Myself.”
-
-“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”
-
-She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
-pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
-was than she. He made her another bow.
-
-“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
-those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
-France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
-me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
-during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
-gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
-beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
-
-“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
-be more happy to execute it.”
-
-“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
-by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
-business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
-nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
-strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
-
-“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”
-
-After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
-ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”
-
-He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
-forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
-and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
-as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
-shadow.
-
-“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
-
-“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
-an argumentative smile.
-
-Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
-which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
-deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
-she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
-moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
-
-“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
-as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”
-
-“If you please, sir.”
-
-“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
-acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
-if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
-your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
-
-“Story!”
-
-He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
-in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
-our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
-gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”
-
-“Not of Beauvais?”
-
-“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
-Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
-time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”
-
-“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”
-
-“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
-I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
-French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
-In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
-scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
-there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
-sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
-business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
-the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
-machine. To go on--”
-
-“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
-curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
-left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
-it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
-to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
-conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
-the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
-his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
-down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
-
-“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
-just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
-with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
-that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
-Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
-Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
-of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
-Mangle.”
-
-After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
-flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
-unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
-before), and resumed his former attitude.
-
-“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
-regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
-when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”
-
-She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
-
-“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
-the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
-him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
-business. As I was saying--”
-
-Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
-
-“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
-and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
-been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
-trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
-privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
-to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
-privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
-to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
-implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
-him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
-been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”
-
-“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
-
-“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”
-
-“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
-moment.”
-
-“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
-his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
-Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
-if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
-had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
-born--”
-
-“The little child was a daughter, sir.”
-
-“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
-poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
-that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
-inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
-rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
-Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
-
-“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
-
-“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
-business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
-mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
-shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
-much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
-
-Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
-very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
-his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
-communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
-
-“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
-you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
-you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
-her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
-to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
-upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
-heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
-
-As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
-flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
-been already tinged with grey.
-
-“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
-they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
-discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
-
-He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
-forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
-now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
-
-“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
-probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
-Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
-in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
-restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
-
-A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
-low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
-
-“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”
-
-Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
-there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
-You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
-sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
-
-She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
-have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
-
-“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
-wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
-another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
-worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
-know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
-held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
-because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
-anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
-events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
-Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
-the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
-to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
-and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
-which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
-word! Miss Manette!”
-
-Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
-sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
-upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
-branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
-feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
-out loudly for assistance without moving.
-
-A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
-be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
-extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
-wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
-or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
-inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
-poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
-flying back against the nearest wall.
-
-(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
-reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
-
-“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
-“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
-at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
-things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
-water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”
-
-There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
-softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
-gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
-golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
-
-“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
-“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
-to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
-you call _that_ being a Banker?”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
-answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
-sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
-servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
-not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
-regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
-upon her shoulder.
-
-“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
-
-“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
-humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”
-
-“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
-intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
-would have cast my lot in an island?”
-
-This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
-consider it.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wine-shop
-
-
-A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
-accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
-out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
-outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
-
-All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
-idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
-stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
-thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
-had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
-jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
-made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
-women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
-run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
-the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
-handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
-mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
-others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
-there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
-directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
-pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
-fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
-wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
-along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
-if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
-presence.
-
-A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
-and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
-was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
-special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
-of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
-luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
-shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
-together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
-most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
-demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
-had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
-motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
-hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
-starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
-with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
-the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
-gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
-
-The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
-in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
-stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
-wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
-on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
-stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
-Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
-tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
-head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
-upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
-
-The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
-street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
-
-And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
-gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
-heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
-waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
-but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
-terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
-fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
-passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
-in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
-had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
-children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
-grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
-was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
-of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
-lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
-paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
-firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
-chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
-among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
-baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
-bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
-was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
-chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
-farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
-drops of oil.
-
-Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
-street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
-diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
-and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
-that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
-wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
-slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
-compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
-into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
-inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
-were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
-painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
-meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
-croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
-gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
-flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
-and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
-gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
-with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
-broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
-the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
-rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
-the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
-pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
-and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
-manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
-the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
-
-For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
-should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
-long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
-up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
-condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
-France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
-song and feather, took no warning.
-
-The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
-appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
-it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
-for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
-of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
-another.”
-
-There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
-he called to him across the way:
-
-“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
-
-The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
-the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
-often the way with his tribe too.
-
-“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
-keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
-mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
-in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
-to write such words in?”
-
-In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
-perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
-own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
-attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
-hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
-practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
-
-“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
-there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
-dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
-his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
-
-This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
-and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
-bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
-His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
-the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
-crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
-eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
-the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
-resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
-down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
-the man.
-
-Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
-came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
-a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
-heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
-manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
-have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
-in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
-sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
-shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
-earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
-her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
-by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
-coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
-of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
-line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
-shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
-he stepped over the way.
-
-The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
-rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
-a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
-dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
-of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
-elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”
-
-“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
-to himself; “I don't know you.”
-
-But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
-with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
-all the spilt wine swallowed?”
-
-“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
-
-When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
-picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
-and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
-Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
-of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
-
-“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
-
-At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
-using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
-cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
-drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
-
-“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
-always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
-right, Jacques?”
-
-“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
-when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
-slightly rustled in her seat.
-
-“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”
-
-The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
-flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
-giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
-wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
-of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
-upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
-wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
-fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
-close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
-my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
-there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
-
-They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
-Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
-gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
-
-“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
-the door.
-
-Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
-word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
-not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
-beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
-knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
-
-Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
-joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
-company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
-and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
-by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
-gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
-to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
-a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
-transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
-in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
-angry, dangerous man.
-
-“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
- Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
-ascending the stairs.
-
-“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
-
-“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
-same low voice.
-
-“Is he always alone, then?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Of his own desire?”
-
-“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
-found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
-discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
-
-“He is greatly changed?”
-
-“Changed!”
-
-The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
-and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
-forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
-two companions ascended higher and higher.
-
-Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
-parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
-indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
-within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
-the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
-staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
-flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
-hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
-the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
-intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
-insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
-and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
-his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
-Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
-at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
-uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
-to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
-caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
-or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
-promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
-
-At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
-third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
-and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
-was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
-advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
-dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
-here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
-his shoulder, took out a key.
-
-“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
-
-“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
-
-“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
-closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
-frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
-harm--if his door was left open.”
-
-“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
-world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
-are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
-that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
-
-This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
-of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
-under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
-and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
-on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
-
-“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
-moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
-all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
-bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
-That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
-
-They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
-soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
-once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
-the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
-the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
-footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
-themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
-wine-shop.
-
-“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
-Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
-
-The three glided by, and went silently down.
-
-There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
-the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
-Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
-
-“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
-
-“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
-
-“Is that well?”
-
-“_I_ think it is well.”
-
-“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
-
-“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
-sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
-thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
-
-With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
-through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
-twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
-make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
-three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
-it as heavily as he could.
-
-The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
-room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
-than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
-
-He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
-got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
-felt that she was sinking.
-
-“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
-business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
-
-“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
-
-“Of it? What?”
-
-“I mean of him. Of my father.”
-
-Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
-their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
-shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
-down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
-
-Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
-took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
-methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
-could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
-where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
-
-The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
-and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
-roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
-the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
-other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
-door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
-Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
-was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
-alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
-requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
-done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
-towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
-him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
-busy, making shoes.
-
-
-
-
-VI. The Shoemaker
-
-
-“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
-bent low over the shoemaking.
-
-It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
-salutation, as if it were at a distance:
-
-“Good day!”
-
-“You are still hard at work, I see?”
-
-After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
-voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
-had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
-
-The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
-faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
-doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
-the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
-of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
-resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
-beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
-suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
-it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
-wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
-home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
-
-Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
-up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
-perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
-aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
-
-“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
-“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”
-
-The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
-at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
-other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“You can bear a little more light?”
-
-“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
-stress upon the second word.)
-
-The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
-angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
-showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
-labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
-feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
-long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
-thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
-dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
-otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
-His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
-to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
-stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
-from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
-parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
-
-He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
-of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
-pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
-first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
-lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
-first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
-
-“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
-motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
-
-“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”
-
-But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
-
-Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
-he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
-looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
-unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
-it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
-the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
-look and the action had occupied but an instant.
-
-“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Here is a visitor.”
-
-The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
-work.
-
-“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
-he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
-
-“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
-
-There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
-
-“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”
-
-“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
-information?”
-
-“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
-present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
-glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
-
-“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.
-
-Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
-in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
-hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
-so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
-recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
-had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
-endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
-fast-dying man.
-
-“Did you ask me for my name?”
-
-“Assuredly I did.”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
-again, until the silence was again broken.
-
-“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
-at him.
-
-His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
-question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
-on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
-
-“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
-learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”
-
-He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
-hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
-from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
-resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
-subject of last night.
-
-“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
-a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”
-
-As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
-Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
-
-“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
-
-The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
-questioner.
-
-“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
-remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
-banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
-mind, Monsieur Manette?”
-
-As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
-Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
-intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
-through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
-again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
-so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
-had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
-she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
-raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
-shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
-trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
-breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
-repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
-looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
-
-Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
-less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
-and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
-took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
-
-“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.
-
-“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
-unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
-well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”
-
-She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
-which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
-figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
-over his labour.
-
-Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
-beside him, and he bent over his work.
-
-It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
-in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
-which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
-stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
-raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
-but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
-striking at her with the knife, though they had.
-
-He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
-to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
-the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
-
-“What is this?”
-
-With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
-lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
-laid his ruined head there.
-
-“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”
-
-She sighed “No.”
-
-“Who are you?”
-
-Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
-beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
-thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
-laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
-
-Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
-aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
-little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
-he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
-shoemaking.
-
-But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
-shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
-be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
-to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
-attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
-a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
-hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
-
-He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
-the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”
-
-As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
-become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
-light, and looked at her.
-
-“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
-out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
-brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
-leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
-may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
-well.”
-
-He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
-But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
-though slowly.
-
-“How was this?--_Was it you_?”
-
-Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
-frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
-said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
-us, do not speak, do not move!”
-
-“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”
-
-His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
-hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
-shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
-tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
-gloomily shook his head.
-
-“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
-prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
-she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
-was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
-name, my gentle angel?”
-
-Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
-before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
-
-“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
-and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
-cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
-tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
-me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”
-
-His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
-lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
-
-“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
-is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
-sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
-touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
-breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
-I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
-with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
-remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
-weep for it, weep for it!”
-
-She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
-child.
-
-“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
-have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
-peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
-and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
-if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
-and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
-honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
-striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
-my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
-for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
-tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
-God for us, thank God!”
-
-He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
-touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
-had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
-
-When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
-breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
-storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
-called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
-daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
-there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
-head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
-him from the light.
-
-“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
-he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
-arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
-could be taken away--”
-
-“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
-him.”
-
-“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
-than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
-Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”
-
-“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
-methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”
-
-“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
-composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
-now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
-interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
-as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
-you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
-
-Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
-in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
-and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
-for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
-dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
-to do it.
-
-Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
-hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
-deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
-through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
-had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
-meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
-lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
-garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
-assisted him to his feet.
-
-No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
-the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
-whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
-he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
-tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
-answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
-the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
-occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
-in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
-daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
-
-In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
-ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
-and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
-his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
-in both his own.
-
-They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
-Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
-of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
-round at the walls.
-
-“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
-she had repeated it.
-
-“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”
-
-That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
-prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
-evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
-him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
-tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
-no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
-dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
-
-No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
-many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
-silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
-that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
-saw nothing.
-
-The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
-him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
-miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
-Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
-went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
-brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
-against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
-
-Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
-postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
-over-swinging lamps.
-
-Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
-streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
-illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
-gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
-travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
-getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
-monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
-him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
-military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
-in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
-or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
-Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
-grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
-grove of stars.
-
-Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
-this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
-rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
-is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
-All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
-whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
-man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
-lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:
-
-“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”
-
-And the old answer:
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-
-The end of the first book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
-
-
-
-I. Five Years Later
-
-
-Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
-year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
-dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
-moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
-proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
-proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
-in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
-it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
-no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
-convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
-no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
-embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
-Tellson's, thank Heaven--!
-
-Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
-question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
-on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
-suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
-objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
-
-Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
-of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
-a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
-and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
-counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
-wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
-windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
-and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
-heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
-“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
-where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
-hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
-twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
-drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
-they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
-were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
-the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
-polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
-made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
-parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
-papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
-dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
-one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
-by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
-from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
-exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
-Abyssinia or Ashantee.
-
-But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
-with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
-Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
-Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
-was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
-purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
-of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
-Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
-three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
-Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
-might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
-reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
-particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
-after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
-its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
-low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
-disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
-ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
-
-Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
-oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
-man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
-old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
-Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
-be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
-and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
-
-Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
-odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
-sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
-upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
-of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
-in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
-tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
-this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
-occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
-easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
-appellation of Jerry.
-
-The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
-Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
-morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
-always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
-the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
-popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
-
-Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
-but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
-might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
-it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
-already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
-for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
-was spread.
-
-Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
-at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
-and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
-looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
-exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
-
-“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
-
-A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
-corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
-person referred to.
-
-“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
-agin, are you?”
-
-After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
-the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
-odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
-whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
-often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
-
-“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
-mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”
-
-“I was only saying my prayers.”
-
-“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
-yourself down and praying agin me?”
-
-“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”
-
-“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
-your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
-father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
-You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
-herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
-of the mouth of her only child.”
-
-Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
-to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
-board.
-
-“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
-unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
-Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”
-
-“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
-that.”
-
-“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
-much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
-afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
-you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
-child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
-wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
-have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
-countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
-B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
-on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
-another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
-devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
-boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
-then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
-tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
-in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
-laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
-it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
-I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
-been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
-it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
-say now!”
-
-Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
-You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
-and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
-from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
-himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
-In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
-and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
-kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
-woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
-his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
---Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
-again with an undutiful grin.
-
-Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
-breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
-animosity.
-
-“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”
-
-His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
-
-“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
-to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
-ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
-blest off my table. Keep still!”
-
-Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
-which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
-his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
-inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
-aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
-he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
-of the day.
-
-It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
-description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
-a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
-young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
-beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
-with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
-from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
-feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
-Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
-itself,--and was almost as in-looking.
-
-Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
-three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
-Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
-standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
-inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
-boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
-extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
-in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
-eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
-The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
-the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
-youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
-in Fleet-street.
-
-The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
-establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
-
-“Porter wanted!”
-
-“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”
-
-Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
-the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
-had been chewing, and cogitated.
-
-“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
-“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
-rust here!”
-
-
-
-
-II. A Sight
-
-
-“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
-clerks to Jerry the messenger.
-
-“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
-know the Bailey.”
-
-“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
-better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
-in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”
-
-“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
-door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”
-
-“Into the court, sir?”
-
-“Into the court.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
-interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”
-
-“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
-conference.
-
-“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
-Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
-attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
-to remain there until he wants you.”
-
-“Is that all, sir?”
-
-“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
-you are there.”
-
-As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
-Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
-blotting-paper stage, remarked:
-
-“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”
-
-“Treason!”
-
-“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”
-
-“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
-spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”
-
-“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
-him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
-
-“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
-care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
-care of itself. I give you that advice.”
-
-“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
-leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
-
-“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
-gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
-ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”
-
-Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
-deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
-too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
-and went his way.
-
-They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
-not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
-But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
-villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
-into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
-dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
-had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
-his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
-For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
-from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
-a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
-half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
-So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
-was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
-a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
-the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
-softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
-blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
-leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
-under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
-illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
-that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
-consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
-
-Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
-hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
-way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
-his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
-at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
-former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
-doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
-criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
-
-After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
-very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
-court.
-
-“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
-to.
-
-“Nothing yet.”
-
-“What's coming on?”
-
-“The Treason case.”
-
-“The quartering one, eh?”
-
-“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
-be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
-face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
-and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
-That's the sentence.”
-
-“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.
-
-“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
-that.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
-saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
-sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
-gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
-before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
-in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
-then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
-court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
-with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
-to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
-
-“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
-
-“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.
-
-“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
-
-“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.
-
-The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
-central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
-went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
-
-Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
-ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
-at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
-pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
-stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
-laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
-themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
-upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
-Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
-of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
-whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
-the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
-that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
-in an impure mist and rain.
-
-The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
-five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
-a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
-dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
-dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
-of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
-itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
-situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
-soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
-bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
-
-The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
-was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
-horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
-details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
-fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
-was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
-and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
-spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
-powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
-
-Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
-an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
-he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
-forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
-occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
-King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
-so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
-our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
-said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
-evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
-said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
-to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
-becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
-huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
-the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
-there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
-that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
-
-The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
-beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
-the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
-attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
-and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
-composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
-it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
-vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
-
-Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
-upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
-it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
-in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
-glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
-day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
-for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
-that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
-of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
-face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
-
-It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
-which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
-in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
-immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
-aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
-
-The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
-twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
-remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
-and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
-but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
-looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
-it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
-handsome man, not past the prime of life.
-
-His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
-him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
-dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
-been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
-that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
-noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
-had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
-“Who are they?”
-
-Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
-manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
-absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
-him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
-from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
-to Jerry:
-
-“Witnesses.”
-
-“For which side?”
-
-“Against.”
-
-“Against what side?”
-
-“The prisoner's.”
-
-The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
-leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
-in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
-axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
-
-
-
-
-III. A Disappointment
-
-
-Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
-them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
-claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
-public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
-even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
-prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
-repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
-he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
-traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
-wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
-That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
-was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
-prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
-Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
-That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
-attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
-friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
-infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
-in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
-were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
-benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
-they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
-as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
-knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
-whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
-they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
-especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
-That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
-for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
-communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
-a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
-and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
-hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
-in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
-brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
-Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
-on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
-witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
-produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
-his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
-sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
-such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
-proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
-same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
-showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
-would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
-in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
-very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
-That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
-were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
-positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
-they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
-pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
-their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
-of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
-there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
-pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
-Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
-everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
-of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
-good as dead and gone.
-
-When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
-a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
-anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
-unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
-
-Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
-patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
-exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
-it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
-of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
-wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
-Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
-opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
-
-Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
-What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
-precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
-Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
-distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
-prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
-prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
-times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
-been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
-Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
-downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
-dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
-committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
-Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
-more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
-Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
-very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
-No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
-about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
-Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
-pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
-no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
-patriotism? None whatever.
-
-The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
-great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
-simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
-packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
-He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
-charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
-the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
-his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
-prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
-the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
-had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
-at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
-Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
-information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
-he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
-only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
-that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
-coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
-curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
-was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
-
-The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry.
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
-seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
-Dover by the mail?”
-
-“It did.”
-
-“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
-
-“Two.”
-
-“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
-
-“They did.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”
-
-“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
-
-“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
-
-“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
-reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
-those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
-render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”
-
-“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
-myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
-air.”
-
-“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“I certainly have seen that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
-certain knowledge, before?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
-prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
-voyage with me.”
-
-“At what hour did he come on board?”
-
-“At a little after midnight.”
-
-“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
-at that untimely hour?”
-
-“He happened to be the only one.”
-
-“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
-came on board in the dead of the night?”
-
-“He was.”
-
-“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
-
-“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
-
-“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
-
-“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
-I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
-
-“Miss Manette!”
-
-The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
-turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
-kept her hand drawn through his arm.
-
-“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
-
-To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
-far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
-Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
-the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
-to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
-before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
-to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
-rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
-
-“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Where?”
-
-“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
-occasion.”
-
-“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
-
-“O! most unhappily, I am!”
-
-The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
-of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
-to you, and make no remark upon them.”
-
-“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
-passage across the Channel?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Recall it.”
-
-In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
-gentleman came on board--”
-
-“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
-
-“Yes, my Lord.”
-
-“Then say the prisoner.”
-
-“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
-her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
-and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
-afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
-deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
-care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
-The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
-shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
-had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
-set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
-great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
-felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
-
-“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“How many were with him?”
-
-“Two French gentlemen.”
-
-“Had they conferred together?”
-
-“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
-necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”
-
-“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”
-
-“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
-papers.”
-
-“Like these in shape and size?”
-
-“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
-near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
-light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
-spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
-they looked at papers.”
-
-“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”
-
-“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
-of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
-father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
-harm to-day.”
-
-Buzzing from the blue-flies.
-
-“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
-you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
-give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
-he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”
-
-“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
-difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
-therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
-had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
-take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
-time to come.”
-
-“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”
-
-“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
-that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
-England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
-Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
-Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
-laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
-
-Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
-a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
-unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
-anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
-she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
-the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
-expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
-of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
-when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
-heresy about George Washington.
-
-Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
-necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
-father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
-
-“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
-
-“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
-three years and a half ago.”
-
-“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
-speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
-
-“Sir, I can do neither.”
-
-“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
-either?”
-
-He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
-
-“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
-trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”
-
-He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”
-
-“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
-
-“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
-time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
-time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
-here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
-my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
-familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
-
-Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
-together.
-
-A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
-to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
-in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
-got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
-not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
-to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
-was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
-in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
-waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
-this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
-on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
-been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
-little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
-this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
-attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
-
-“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
-
-The witness was quite sure.
-
-“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
-
-Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
-
-“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
-to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
-prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”
-
-Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
-if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
-not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
-into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
-his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
-much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
-counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
-friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
-would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
-happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
-this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
-confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
-this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
-useless lumber.
-
-Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
-fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
-Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
-of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
-traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
-scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
-rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
-and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
-swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
-affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
-those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
-consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
-even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
-and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
-had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
-gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
-and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
-reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
-impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
-How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
-attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
-and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
-how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
-character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
-State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
-(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
-not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
-
-Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
-attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
-Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
-Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
-prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
-the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
-decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
-
-And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
-
-Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
-changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
-While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
-whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
-anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
-grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
-and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
-in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
-sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
-on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
-hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
-day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
-a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
-undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
-when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
-lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
-hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
-observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
-that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
-to get any, do he?”
-
-Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
-appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
-her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
-“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
-Don't you see she will fall!”
-
-There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
-sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
-him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
-strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
-brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
-ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
-moment, spoke, through their foreman.
-
-They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
-Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
-but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
-and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
-the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
-jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
-refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
-down.
-
-Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
-now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
-could easily get near him.
-
-“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
-way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
-behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
-are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
-before I can.”
-
-Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
-acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
-at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
-
-“How is the young lady?”
-
-“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
-feels the better for being out of court.”
-
-“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
-like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
-in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
-The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
-eyes, ears, and spikes.
-
-“Mr. Darnay!”
-
-The prisoner came forward directly.
-
-“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
-will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”
-
-“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
-for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
-
-“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
-
-Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
-half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
-
-“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
-
-“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
-Mr. Darnay?”
-
-“The worst.”
-
-“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
-withdrawing is in your favour.”
-
-Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
-more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
-in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
-them.
-
-An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
-passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
-The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
-refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
-of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
-with them.
-
-“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
-there.
-
-“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
-
-Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
-it?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
-
-“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
-Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”
-
-He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
-until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
-with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
-swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
-search of other carrion.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Congratulatory
-
-
-From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
-human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
-Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
-for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
-Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
-death.
-
-It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
-in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
-shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
-twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
-had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
-to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
-reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
-lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
-from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
-itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
-unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
-Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
-hundred miles away.
-
-Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
-his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
-misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
-the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
-influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
-recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
-and slight, and she believed them over.
-
-Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
-to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
-more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
-loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
-way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
-conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
-
-He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
-late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
-out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
-Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
-less likely to succeed on that account.”
-
-“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
- said his late client, taking his hand.
-
-“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
-another man's, I believe.”
-
-It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
-said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
-object of squeezing himself back again.
-
-“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
-and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
-
-“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
-now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
-him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
-this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
-Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”
-
-“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
-do yet. Speak for yourself.”
-
-“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
-Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
- He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
-
-His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
-Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
-not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
-thoughts had wandered away.
-
-“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
-
-He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
-
-“Shall we go home, my father?”
-
-With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”
-
-The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
-impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
-released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
-passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
-and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
-gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
-Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
-the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
-departed in it.
-
-Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
-to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
-interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
-against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
-out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
-stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
-
-“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”
-
-Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
-proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
-better for it in appearance.
-
-“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
-business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
-appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
-sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
-have to think of the House more than ourselves.”
-
-“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
-nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
-I dare say.”
-
-“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
-know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
-much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
-business.”
-
-“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“It is a pity you have not, sir.”
-
-“I think so, too.”
-
-“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”
-
-“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
-“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
-if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
-Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
-for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
-I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
-life.--Chair there!”
-
-Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
-Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
-who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
-then, and turned to Darnay:
-
-“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
-be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
-these street stones?”
-
-“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
-again.”
-
-“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
-advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”
-
-“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”
-
-“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
-numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
-some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”
-
-Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
-Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
-shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
-his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
-opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
-before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
-
-“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
-Darnay?”
-
-“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
-mended as to feel that.”
-
-“It must be an immense satisfaction!”
-
-He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
-one.
-
-“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
-It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
-are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
-not much alike in any particular, you and I.”
-
-Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
-this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
-at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
-
-“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
-health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”
-
-“What health? What toast?”
-
-“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
-swear it's there.”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
-flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
-pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
- he said, filling his new goblet.
-
-A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
-feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
-sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”
-
-Again Darnay answered not a word.
-
-“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
-that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”
-
-The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
-disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
-strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
-for it.
-
-“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
-“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
-it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”
-
-“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”
-
-“Do you think I particularly like you?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
-not asked myself the question.”
-
-“But ask yourself the question now.”
-
-“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”
-
-“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
-opinion of your understanding.”
-
-“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
-nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
-parting without ill-blood on either side.”
-
-Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
-reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
-bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
-ten.”
-
-The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
-Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
-of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
-I am drunk?”
-
-“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
-
-“Since I must say so, I know it.”
-
-“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
-care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
-
-“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
-
-“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
-however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”
-
-When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
-glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
-
-“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
-should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
-in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
-made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
-what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
-places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
-he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
-have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
-
-He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
-minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
-table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Jackal
-
-
-Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
-the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
-statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
-in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
-perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
-The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
-learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
-Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
-practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
-drier parts of the legal race.
-
-A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
-begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
-he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
-specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
-visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
-florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
-the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
-among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
-
-It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
-man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
-faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
-among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
-But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
-business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
-pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
-Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
-
-Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
-ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
-might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
-anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
-at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
-they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
-rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
-to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
-among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
-would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
-rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
-wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“_What's_ the matter?”
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”
-
-“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
-
-“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
-
-After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
-dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
-he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
-and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
-Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
-
-The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
-home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
-and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
-had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
-may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
-Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
-Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
-
-“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.
-
-“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”
-
-They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
-where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
-the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
-it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
-
-“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”
-
-“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
-seeing him dine--it's all one!”
-
-“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
-identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”
-
-“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
-been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”
-
-Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
-
-“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”
-
-Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
-room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
-or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
-out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
-at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”
-
-“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
-gaily, as he looked among his papers.
-
-“How much?”
-
-“Only two sets of them.”
-
-“Give me the worst first.”
-
-“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
-
-The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
-drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
-proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
-his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
-a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
-his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
-lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
-so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
-stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
-more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
-matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
-him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
-jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
-no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
-gravity.
-
-At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
-proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
-made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
-assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
-hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
-invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
-to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
-this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
-disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
-
-“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
-Stryver.
-
-The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
-again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
-
-“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
-to-day. Every question told.”
-
-“I always am sound; am I not?”
-
-“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
-it and smooth it again.”
-
-With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
-
-“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
-his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
-old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
-now in despondency!”
-
-“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
-luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
-
-He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
-him, looking at the fire.
-
-“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
-as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
-was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
-Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
-is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
-at me.”
-
-“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
-good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”
-
-“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
-do?”
-
-“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
-your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
-do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”
-
-“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”
-
-“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
-Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
-
-“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
- pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
-mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
-picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
-didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
-nowhere.”
-
-“And whose fault was that?”
-
-“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
-driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
-that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
-thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
-Turn me in some other direction before I go.”
-
-“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
-his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”
-
-Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
-
-“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
-enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”
-
-“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”
-
-“_She_ pretty?”
-
-“Is she not?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”
-
-“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
-of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”
-
-“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
-and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
-thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
-and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”
-
-“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
-yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
-I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
-I'll get to bed.”
-
-When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
-him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
-windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
-dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
-lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
-before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
-the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
-
-Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
-on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
-wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
-perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
-from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
-fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
-A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
-houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
-pillow was wet with wasted tears.
-
-Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
-good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
-incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
-on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
-
-
-
-
-VI. Hundreds of People
-
-
-The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
-far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
-waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
-it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
-on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
-business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
-quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
-
-On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
-the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
-Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
-secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
-them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
-generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
-his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
-Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
-them.
-
-A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
-found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
-the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
-had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
-north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
-grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
-consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
-instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
-settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
-the peaches ripened in their season.
-
-The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
-of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
-though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
-glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
-place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
-
-There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
-there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
-several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
-audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
-a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
-rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
-to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
-who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
-he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
-visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
-to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
-a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
-workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
-about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
-thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
-required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
-the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
-from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
-
-Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
-its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
-His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
-ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
-he earned as much as he wanted.
-
-These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
-notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
-on the fine Sunday afternoon.
-
-“Doctor Manette at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Lucie at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Pross at home?”
-
-Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
-anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
-fact.
-
-“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”
-
-Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
-birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
-make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
-agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
-by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
-that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
-rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
-the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
-delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
-themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
-stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
-with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
-time, whether he approved?
-
-There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
-communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
-all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
-he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
-the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
-and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
-the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
-changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
-Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
-bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
-dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
-
-“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
-that reminder of his sufferings about him!”
-
-“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
-
-It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
-acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
-had since improved.
-
-“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.
-
-“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
-
-“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
-express that she bore him no malice.
-
-“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
-are you?”
-
-“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
-Ladybird.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
-fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
-stature) was shortness.
-
-“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
-
-“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
-very much put out.”
-
-“May I ask the cause?”
-
-“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
-come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”
-
-“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.
-
-It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
-time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
-she exaggerated it.
-
-“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
-
-“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
-paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
-your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
-for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
- said Miss Pross.
-
-Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
-using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
-fit anything.
-
-“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
-are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”
-
-“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”
-
-“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”
-
-“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
-enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
-that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
-him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
-circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
-and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
-him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”
-
-Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
-this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
-unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
-admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
-it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
-never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
-their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
-is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
-rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
-respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
-mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
-Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
-better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
-
-“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
-Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
-mistake in life.”
-
-Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
-established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
-who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
-speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
-no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
-(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
-matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
-
-“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
-business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
-sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
-in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”
-
-“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
-refer to it within himself.”
-
-“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”
-
-“I do,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
-short with:
-
-“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”
-
-“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
-sometimes?”
-
-“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
-bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
-theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
-the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
-oppressor?”
-
-“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”
-
-“And that is--?”
-
-“That she thinks he has.”
-
-“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
-mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”
-
-“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
-
-Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
-no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
-Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
-he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
-though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
-intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
-attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
-Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
-zealous interest.”
-
-“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
-me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
-of the whole subject.”
-
-“Afraid?”
-
-“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
-remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
-knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
-feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
-subject pleasant, I should think.”
-
-It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
-he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
-Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
-always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
-it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”
-
-“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
-string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
-In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
-the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
-up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
-know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
-his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
-and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
-a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
-best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
-together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
-brought him to himself.”
-
-Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
-perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
-in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
-her possessing such a thing.
-
-The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
-had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
-seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
-set it going.
-
-“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
-“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”
-
-It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
-peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
-looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
-they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
-the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
-heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
-at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
-was ready at the street door to receive them.
-
-Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
-off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
-with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
-folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
-as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
-had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
-sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
-her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
-playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
-chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
-them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
-eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
-have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
-beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
-stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
-Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
-for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
-
-Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
-the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
-always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
-quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
-contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
-better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
-kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
-impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
-impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
-of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
-who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
-or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
-a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
-pleased.
-
-On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
-persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
-regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
-which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
-Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
-to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
-
-It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
-wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
-there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
-they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
-the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
-time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
-plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
-and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
-whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
-
-Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
-presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
-was only One.
-
-Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
-suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
-retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
-disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
-jerks.”
-
-The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
-resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
-they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
-his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
-likeness.
-
-He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
-vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
-plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
-which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
-the Tower?”
-
-“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
-it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”
-
-“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
-though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
-character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
-curious thing when I was there.”
-
-“What was that?” Lucie asked.
-
-“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
-had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
-its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
-prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
-in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
-execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
-some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
-At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
-examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
-legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
-were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
-that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
-floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
-earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
-the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
-or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
-had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”
-
-“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”
-
-He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
-his look quite terrified them all.
-
-“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
-made me start. We had better go in.”
-
-He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
-drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
-said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
-of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
-either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
-towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
-when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
-
-He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
-his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
-steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
-was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
-that the rain had startled him.
-
-Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
-her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
-made only Two.
-
-The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
-windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
-done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
-heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
-leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
-the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
-ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
-
-“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
-Manette. “It comes slowly.”
-
-“It comes surely,” said Carton.
-
-They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
-dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
-
-There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
-get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
-resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
-footstep was there.
-
-“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
-listened for a while.
-
-“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
-sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
-a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
-solemn--”
-
-“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”
-
-“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
-originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
-sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
-the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
-by-and-bye into our lives.”
-
-“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
- Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
-
-The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
-rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
-as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
-coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
-the distant streets, and not one within sight.
-
-“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
-are we to divide them among us?”
-
-“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
-asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
-then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
-into my life, and my father's.”
-
-“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
-stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
-and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
-had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
-
-“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
-come, fast, fierce, and furious!”
-
-It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
-for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
-lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
-interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
-midnight.
-
-The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
-Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
-forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
-of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
-of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
-usually performed a good two hours earlier.
-
-“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
-bring the dead out of their graves.”
-
-“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
-would do that,” answered Jerry.
-
-“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
-Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”
-
-Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
-bearing down upon them, too.
-
-
-
-
-VII. Monseigneur in Town
-
-
-Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
-fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
-his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
-the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
-was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
-things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
-rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
-much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
-strong men besides the Cook.
-
-Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
-Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
-pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
-conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
-the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
-the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
-a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
-watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
-dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
-place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
-his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
-men; he must have died of two.
-
-Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
-and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
-a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
-impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
-more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
-state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
-for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
-favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
-days of the merry Stuart who sold it.
-
-Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
-was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
-business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
-his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
-particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
-was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
-by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
-thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”
-
-Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
-his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
-affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
-public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
-must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
-private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
-generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
-Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
-time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
-wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
-poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
-a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
-rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
-mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
-down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
-
-A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
-stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
-waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
-forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
-relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
-among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
-
-For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
-every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
-achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
-reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
-so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
-equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
-have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
-been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
-destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
-civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
-worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
-all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
-pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
-Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
-anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
-score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
-yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
-passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
-no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
-for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
-patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
-discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
-State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
-root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
-they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
-Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
-card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
-Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
-wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
-the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
-since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
-subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
-exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
-notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
-among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
-of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
-the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
-appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
-bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
-towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
-known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
-and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
-supped as at twenty.
-
-The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
-upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
-people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
-things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
-them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
-sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
-whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
-spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
-Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
-three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
-jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
-Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
-out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
-the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
-by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
-discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
-became manifest.
-
-But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
-Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
-ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
-correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
-delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
-swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
-surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
-of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
-languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
-and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
-fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
-his devouring hunger far away.
-
-Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
-things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
-was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
-Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
-of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
-descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
-required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
-and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
-rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
-Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
-him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
-Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
-of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
-hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
-see the very stars out!
-
-Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
-chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
-open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
-fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
-body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
-been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
-troubled it.
-
-Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
-happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
-passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
-Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
-course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
-sprites, and was seen no more.
-
-The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
-and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
-but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
-and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
-way out.
-
-“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
-and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”
-
-With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
-dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
-
-He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
-with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
-feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
-beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
-of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
-change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
-colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
-by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
-treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
-attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
-line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
-too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
-handsome face, and a remarkable one.
-
-Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
-drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
-stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
-in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
-to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
-often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
-charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
-check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
-sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
-that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
-custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
-barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
-time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
-left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
-
-With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
-consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
-dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
-before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
-its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
-wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
-number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
-
-But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
-stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
-behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
-and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
-
-“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
-
-A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
-the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
-down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
-
-“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
-a child.”
-
-“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”
-
-“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”
-
-The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
-into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
-got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
-Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
-
-“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
-their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”
-
-The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
-nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
-and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
-people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
-remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
-and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
-over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
-
-He took out his purse.
-
-“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
-of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
-the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
-him that.”
-
-He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
-craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
-tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”
-
-He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
-made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
-sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
-stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
-were as silent, however, as the men.
-
-“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
-Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
-live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
-as happily?”
-
-“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
-they call you?”
-
-“They call me Defarge.”
-
-“Of what trade?”
-
-“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”
-
-“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
-throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
-there; are they right?”
-
-Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
-Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
-air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
-paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
-disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
-
-“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”
-
-He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
-moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
-the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
-figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
-
-“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
-except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
-willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
-threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
-should be crushed under the wheels.”
-
-So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
-what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
-a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
-But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
-Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
-contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
-leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”
-
-He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
-succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
-Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
-whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
-had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
-on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
-spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
-which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
-bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
-while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
-of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
-had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
-of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
-into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
-time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
-in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
-things ran their course.
-
-
-
-
-VIII. Monseigneur in the Country
-
-
-A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
-Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
-and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
-inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
-tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
-disposition to give up, and wither away.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
-lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
-a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
-no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
-occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
-sun.
-
-The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
-gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
-die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”
-
-In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
-heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
-hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
-quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
-left when the drag was taken off.
-
-But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
-at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
-church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
-fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
-as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
-coming near home.
-
-The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
-tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
-fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
-its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
-shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
-fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
-the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
-were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
-for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
-paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
-the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.
-
-Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
-their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
-terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
-or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
-
-Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
-whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
-if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
-his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
-fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
-He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
-sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
-meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
-truth through the best part of a hundred years.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
-drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
-Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
-drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
-of the roads joined the group.
-
-“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.
-
-The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
-to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
-
-“I passed you on the road?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”
-
-“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true.”
-
-“What did you look at, so fixedly?”
-
-“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”
-
-He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
-carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
-
-“What man, pig? And why look there?”
-
-“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”
-
-“Who?” demanded the traveller.
-
-“Monseigneur, the man.”
-
-“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
-know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”
-
-“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
-all the days of my life, I never saw him.”
-
-“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”
-
-“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
-His head hanging over--like this!”
-
-He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
-face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
-himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
-
-“What was he like?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
-white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”
-
-The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
-eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
-the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
-conscience.
-
-“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
-vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
-and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
-Gabelle!”
-
-Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
-united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
-examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
-official manner.
-
-“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.
-
-“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
-to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”
-
-“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”
-
-“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”
-
-The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
-particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
-half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
-presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
-
-“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
-a person plunges into the river.”
-
-“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”
-
-The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
-wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
-to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
-they might not have been so fortunate.
-
-The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
-rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
-it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
-sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
-gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
-points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
-courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
-
-At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
-with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
-figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
-studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
-dreadfully spare and thin.
-
-To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
-growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
-turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
-presented herself at the carriage-door.
-
-“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”
-
-With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
-Monseigneur looked out.
-
-“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”
-
-“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”
-
-“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
-cannot pay something?”
-
-“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”
-
-“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”
-
-“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
-grass.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”
-
-“Again, well?”
-
-She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
-grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
-with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
-caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
-feel the appealing touch.
-
-“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
-want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”
-
-“Again, well? Can I feed them?”
-
-“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
-that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
-over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
-forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
-shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
-are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
-Monseigneur!”
-
-The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
-a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
-behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
-diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
-his chateau.
-
-The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
-the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
-at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
-of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
-man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
-could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
-in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
-stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
-been extinguished.
-
-The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
-was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
-for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
-of his chateau was opened to him.
-
-“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”
-
-“Monseigneur, not yet.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Gorgon's Head
-
-
-It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
-with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
-staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
-business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
-stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
-all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
-finished, two centuries ago.
-
-Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
-to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
-of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
-flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
-door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
-in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
-save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
-those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
-heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
-
-The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
-hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
-grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
-peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
-was angry.
-
-Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
-Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
-the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
-to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
-others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
-the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
-befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
-The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
-break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
-but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
-pages in the history of France.
-
-A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
-room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
-lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
-closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
-black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
-
-“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
-said he was not arrived.”
-
-Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
-
-“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
-table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
-
-In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
-sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
-he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
-lips, when he put it down.
-
-“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
-horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
-
-“Monseigneur? That?”
-
-“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”
-
-It was done.
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
-here.”
-
-The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
-the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
-for instructions.
-
-“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”
-
-That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
-half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
-hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
-front of the chateau.
-
-“Ask who is arrived.”
-
-It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
-Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
-rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
-He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
-
-He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
-there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
-He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
-
-Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
-hands.
-
-“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
-seat at table.
-
-“Yesterday. And you?”
-
-“I come direct.”
-
-“From London?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.
-
-“On the contrary; I come direct.”
-
-“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
-intending the journey.”
-
-“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
-answer--“various business.”
-
-“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.
-
-So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
-When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
-looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
-fine mask, opened a conversation.
-
-“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
-took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
-a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
-sustained me.”
-
-“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”
-
-“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
-the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”
-
-The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
-lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
-graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
-breeding that it was not reassuring.
-
-“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
-expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
-circumstances that surrounded me.”
-
-“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.
-
-“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
-deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
-and would know no scruple as to means.”
-
-“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
-two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”
-
-“I recall it.”
-
-“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
-
-His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
-instrument.
-
-“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
-bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
-France here.”
-
-“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
-“Dare I ask you to explain?”
-
-“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
-been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
-have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”
-
-“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
-of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
-Pray excuse me!”
-
-“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
-yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.
-
-“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
-politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
-consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
-your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
-yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
-at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
-aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
-might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
-and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
-(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
-things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
-of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
-dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
-one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
-some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
-lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
-assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
-to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
-bad!”
-
-The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
-as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
-containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
-
-“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
-time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
-more detested than any name in France.”
-
-“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
-involuntary homage of the low.”
-
-“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
-look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
-deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”
-
-“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
-merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
-Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
-crossed his legs.
-
-But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
-thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
-him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
-and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
-indifference.
-
-“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
-and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
-obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
-out the sky.”
-
-That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
-chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
-they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
-him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
-the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
-he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
-way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
-was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
-
-“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
-of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
-terminate our conference for the night?”
-
-“A moment more.”
-
-“An hour, if you please.”
-
-“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
-of wrong.”
-
-“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
-and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
-
-“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
-to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
-a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
-our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
-when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
-inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”
-
-“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.
-
-“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
-frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
-execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
-look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
-redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”
-
-“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
-breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
-will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”
-
-Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
-cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
-quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
-touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
-a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
-body, and said,
-
-“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
-lived.”
-
-When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
-box in his pocket.
-
-“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
-bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
-Monsieur Charles, I see.”
-
-“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
-renounce them.”
-
-“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
-is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”
-
-“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
-to me from you, to-morrow--”
-
-“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”
-
-“--or twenty years hence--”
-
-“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
-supposition.”
-
-“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
-relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
-
-“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
-under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
-mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
-and suffering.”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
-
-“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
-qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
-weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
-it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
-another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
-on it, and on all this land.”
-
-“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
-philosophy, graciously intend to live?”
-
-“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
-their backs, may have to do some day--work.”
-
-“In England, for example?”
-
-“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
-family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”
-
-The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
-lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
-Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
-valet.
-
-“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
-prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
-with a smile.
-
-“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
-be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”
-
-“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
-know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“With a daughter?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
-in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
-which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
-time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
-straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
-looked handsomely diabolic.
-
-“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
-commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
-outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
-looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
-
-“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
-again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
-chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
-added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
-valet to his own bedroom.
-
-The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
-loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
-night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
-noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
-enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
-periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
-coming on.
-
-He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
-scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
-toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
-prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
-the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
-chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
-the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
-tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”
-
-“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”
-
-So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
-gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
-with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
-
-The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
-for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
-rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
-very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
-the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
-hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
-
-For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
-stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
-dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
-The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
-were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
-have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
-taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
-the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
-the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
-freed.
-
-The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
-at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
-minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
-hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
-and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
-
-Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
-trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
-of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
-crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
-weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
-the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
-At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
-mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
-
-Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
-windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
-shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
-lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
-fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
-and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
-out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
-and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
-prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
-foot.
-
-The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
-surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
-reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
-now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
-round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
-doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
-pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
-
-All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
-return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
-chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
-figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
-everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
-
-What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
-at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
-much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
-peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
-to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
-no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
-down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
-fountain.
-
-All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
-in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
-emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
-in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
-on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
-trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
-the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
-all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
-on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
-highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
-into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
-himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
-and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
-a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
-(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
-the German ballad of Leonora?
-
-It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
-
-The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
-the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
-through about two hundred years.
-
-It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
-mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
-heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
-was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
-
-“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”
-
-
-
-
-X. Two Promises
-
-
-More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
-Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
-language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
-would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
-young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
-living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
-its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
-sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
-at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
-to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
-dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
-tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
-profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
-work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
-known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
-circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
-So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
-
-In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
-to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
-would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
-did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
-
-A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
-read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
-contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
-and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
-London.
-
-Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
-when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
-invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
-woman.
-
-He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
-heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
-he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
-confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
-him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
-at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
-long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
-mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
-much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
-
-That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
-summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
-he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
-of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
-day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
-
-He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
-which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
-their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
-very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
-of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
-sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
-exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
-frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
-
-He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
-ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
-sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
-
-“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
-return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
-both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”
-
-“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
-a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
-Manette--”
-
-“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
-delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
-soon be home.”
-
-“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
-being from home, to beg to speak to you.”
-
-There was a blank silence.
-
-“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
-and speak on.”
-
-He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
-easy.
-
-“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
- so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
-on which I am about to touch may not--”
-
-He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
-had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
-
-“Is Lucie the topic?”
-
-“She is.”
-
-“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
-to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”
-
-“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
-Manette!” he said deferentially.
-
-There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
-
-“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”
-
-His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
-originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
-Darnay hesitated.
-
-“Shall I go on, sir?”
-
-Another blank.
-
-“Yes, go on.”
-
-“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
-I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
-the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
-laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
-disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
-her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”
-
-The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
-ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
-and cried:
-
-“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”
-
-His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
-Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
-extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
-so received it, and remained silent.
-
-“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
-moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”
-
-He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
-raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
-overshadowed his face:
-
-“Have you spoken to Lucie?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Nor written?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
-to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
-you.”
-
-He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
-
-“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
-Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
-you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
-belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
-can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
-child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
-with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
-is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
-itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
-now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
-years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
-early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
-you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
-hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
-in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
-you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
-neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
-own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
-loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
-have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”
-
-Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
-little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
-
-“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
-with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
-long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
-now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
-your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
-Heaven is my witness that I love her!”
-
-“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
-before now. I believe it.”
-
-“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
-struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
-that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
-put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
-word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
-should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
-a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
-heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
-now touch this honoured hand.”
-
-He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
-
-“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
-you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
-you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
-in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
-life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
-with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
-come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”
-
-His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
-moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
-his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
-conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
-occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
-
-“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
-you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
-you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”
-
-“None. As yet, none.”
-
-“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
-ascertain that, with my knowledge?”
-
-“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
-might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”
-
-“Do you seek any guidance from me?”
-
-“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
-in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”
-
-“Do you seek any promise from me?”
-
-“I do seek that.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
-understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
-innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
-could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”
-
-“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”
-
-“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
-favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
-Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
-word, to save my life.”
-
-“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
-well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
-delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
-respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
-heart.”
-
-“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
-supplied the rest.
-
-“Is sought by any other suitor?”
-
-“It is what I meant to say.”
-
-Her father considered a little before he answered:
-
-“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
-occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”
-
-“Or both,” said Darnay.
-
-“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
-a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”
-
-“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
-part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
-bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
-may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
-me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
-condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
-require, I will observe immediately.”
-
-“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
-your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
-believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
-between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
-that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
-If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”
-
-The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
-the Doctor spoke:
-
-“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
-new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
-thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
-sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
-than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”
-
-So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
-his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
-hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
-
-“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
-“What was it you said to me?”
-
-He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
-condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
-
-“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
-part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
-not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
-why I am in England.”
-
-“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.
-
-“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
-secret from you.”
-
-“Stop!”
-
-For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
-another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
-
-“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
-should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
-promise?”
-
-“Willingly.
-
-“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
-should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”
-
-It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
-darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
-Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
-reading-chair empty.
-
-“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”
-
-Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
-bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
-his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
-blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”
-
-Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
-his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
-her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
-together for a long time.
-
-She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
-slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
-work, were all as usual.
-
-
-
-
-XI. A Companion Picture
-
-
-“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
-jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”
-
-Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
-and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
-a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
-of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
-arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
-November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
-bring grist to the mill again.
-
-Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
-application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
-through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
-the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
-his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
-intervals for the last six hours.
-
-“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
-his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
-his back.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
-surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
-shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”
-
-“_Do_ you?”
-
-“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”
-
-“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“Do I know her?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
-frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
-me to dinner.”
-
-“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
-posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
-because you are such an insensible dog.”
-
-“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
-sensitive and poetical spirit--”
-
-“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
-any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
-I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”
-
-“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”
-
-“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”
-
-“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.
-
-“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
-inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
-be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
-to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”
-
-“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
-way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
-as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
-moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
-hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
-Sydney!”
-
-“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
-be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
-to me.”
-
-“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
-rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
-to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
-fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”
-
-Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
-
-“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
-myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
-Why do I do it?”
-
-“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.
-
-“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
-get on.”
-
-“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
- answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
-to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”
-
-He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
-
-“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
-delivered in no very soothing tone.
-
-“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
-“Who is the lady?”
-
-“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
-Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
-for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
-half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
-make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
-me in slighting terms.”
-
-“I did?”
-
-“Certainly; and in these chambers.”
-
-Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
-drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
-
-“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
-lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
-delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
-little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
-You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
-think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
-a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
-of mine, who had no ear for music.”
-
-Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
-looking at his friend.
-
-“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
-fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
-please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
-will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
-and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
-but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
-astonished?”
-
-“You approve?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”
-
-“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
-you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
-be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
-ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
-enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
-feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
-inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
-that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
-credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
-say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
-know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
-you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
-you really ought to think about a nurse.”
-
-The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
-big as he was, and four times as offensive.
-
-“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
-I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
-you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
-you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
-understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
-respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
-or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
-kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”
-
-“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.
-
-
-
-
-XII. The Fellow of Delicacy
-
-
-Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
-fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
-to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
-debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
-well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
-at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
-before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
-and Hilary.
-
-As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
-saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
-grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
-plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
-plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
-the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
-consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
-case could be.
-
-Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
-proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
-Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
-himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
-
-Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
-while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
-Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
-on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
-along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
-seen how safe and strong he was.
-
-His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
-knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
-Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
-of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
-in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
-cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
-Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
-bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
-under the clouds were a sum.
-
-“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”
-
-It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
-place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
-in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
-squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
-the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
-the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
-
-The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
-recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
-you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
-of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
-hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
-self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
-
-“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
-business character.
-
-“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
-have come for a private word.”
-
-“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
-to the House afar off.
-
-“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
-desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
-be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
-in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
-visitor dubiously.
-
-“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
-What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
-appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
-my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
-Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
-manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
-“you know there really is so much too much of you!”
-
-“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
-opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
-Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”
-
-Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
-end, and bit the feather of a pen.
-
-“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”
-
-“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
-eligible, you are eligible.”
-
-“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.
-
-“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“And advancing?”
-
-“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
-able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”
-
-“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
-perceptibly crestfallen.
-
-“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
-
-“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”
-
-“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
-shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
-have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”
-
-“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
-having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”
-
-“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
-Stryver.
-
-“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
-a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
-complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
-head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
-been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
-
-“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
-when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
-causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
-lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
-young lady. The young lady goes before all.”
-
-“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
-elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
-present in question is a mincing Fool?”
-
-“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
-reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
-from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
-taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
-not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
-this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
-mind.”
-
-The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
-blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
-Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
-no better state now it was his turn.
-
-“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
-be no mistake about it.”
-
-Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
-hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
-toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
-
-“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
-to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
-bar?”
-
-“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”
-
-“Yes, I do.”
-
-“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”
-
-“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
-this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”
-
-“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
-not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
-business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
-Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
-of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
-spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
-may not be right?”
-
-“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
-parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
-in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
-new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”
-
-“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
-understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
-will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
-gentleman breathing.”
-
-“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.
-
-“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
-painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
-Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
-painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
-know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
-the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
-in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
-little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
-it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
-soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
-with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
-best spared. What do you say?”
-
-“How long would you keep me in town?”
-
-“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
-evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”
-
-“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
-hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
-in to-night. Good morning.”
-
-Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
-concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
-bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
-of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
-always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
-believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
-the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
-
-The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
-gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
-moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
-swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
-forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
-out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”
-
-It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
-great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
-Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”
-
-Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
-Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
-purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
-the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
-altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.
-
-“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
-bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
-Soho.”
-
-“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
-thinking of!”
-
-“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
-conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
-advice.”
-
-“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
-am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
-account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
-us say no more about it.”
-
-“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
-final way; “no matter, no matter.”
-
-“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.
-
-“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
-sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
-not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
-done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
-repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
-aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
-a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
-glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
-for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
-have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
-proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
-certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
-that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
-giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
-will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
-I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
-And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
-and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
-you were right, it never would have done.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
-Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
-showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
-“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
-thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”
-
-Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
-was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy
-
-
-If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
-house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
-and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
-cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
-which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
-pierced by the light within him.
-
-And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
-and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
-he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
-transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
-figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
-of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
-in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
-brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
-into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
-him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
-it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
-neighbourhood.
-
-On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
-that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
-delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
-City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
-for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
-those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
-animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
-they took him to the Doctor's door.
-
-He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
-never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
-embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
-his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
-a change in it.
-
-“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
-is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”
-
-“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
-live no better life?”
-
-“God knows it is a shame!”
-
-“Then why not change it?”
-
-Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
-there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
-answered:
-
-“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
-sink lower, and be worse.”
-
-He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
-table trembled in the silence that followed.
-
-She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
-be so, without looking at her, and said:
-
-“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
-what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”
-
-“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
-it would make me very glad!”
-
-“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”
-
-He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
-
-“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
-one who died young. All my life might have been.”
-
-“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
-sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”
-
-“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
-mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
-it!”
-
-She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
-of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
-been holden.
-
-“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
-love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
-poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
-conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
-bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
-disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
-no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
-be.”
-
-“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
-you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
-confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
-little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
-no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
-
-He shook his head.
-
-“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
-little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
-you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
-been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
-home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
-died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
-I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
-old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
-have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
-sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
-a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
-but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
-
-“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
-
-“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
-undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
-weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
-heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
-its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
-service, idly burning away.”
-
-“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
-than you were before you knew me--”
-
-“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
-anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
-
-“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
-attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
-make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
-good, with you, at all?”
-
-“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
-here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
-the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
-and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
-deplore and pity.”
-
-“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
-all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
-and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
-me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
-was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
-alone, and will be shared by no one?”
-
-“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”
-
-“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
-yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”
-
-“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”
-
-He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
-
-“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
-conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
-again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
-the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
-shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
-to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
-in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”
-
-He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
-sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
-down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
-stood looking back at her.
-
-“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
-hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
-but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
-wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
-shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
-what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
-to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”
-
-“I will, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
-you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
-between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
-it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
-you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
-there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
-embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
-me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
-thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
-ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
-and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
-grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
-happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
-beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
-a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”
-
-He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Honest Tradesman
-
-
-To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
-Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
-variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
-upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
-not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
-westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
-both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
-the sun goes down!
-
-With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
-like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
-watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
-running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
-since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
-women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
-Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
-companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
-to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
-have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
-the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
-purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
-
-Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
-the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
-but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
-
-It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
-few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
-unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
-Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
-unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
-attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
-funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
-funeral, which engendered uproar.
-
-“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
-buryin'.”
-
-“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.
-
-The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
-significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
-his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
-
-“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
-to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
-_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
-let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
-hear?”
-
-“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
-
-“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
-harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
-
-His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
-round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
-there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
-considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
-appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
-surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
-incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
- with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
-
-Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
-always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
-Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
-excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
-
-“What is it, brother? What's it about?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
-
-He asked another man. “Who is it?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
-nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
-greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
-
-At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
-against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
-funeral of one Roger Cly.
-
-“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
-Spi--i--ies!”
-
-“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
-assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”
-
-“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
-out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”
-
-The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
-that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
-suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
-so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
-doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
-for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
-that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
-shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
-other symbolical tears.
-
-These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
-enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
-crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
-They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
-out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
-its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
-much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
-the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
-while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
-exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
-was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
-the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
-coach.
-
-The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
-the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
-remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
-members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
-The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
-hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
-close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
-by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
-popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
-ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
-bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
-that part of the procession in which he walked.
-
-Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
-caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
-at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
-was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
-in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
-accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
-highly to its own satisfaction.
-
-The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
-providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
-genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
-passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
-was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
-the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
-they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
-window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
-and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
-been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
-the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
-coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
-the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
-progress of a mob.
-
-Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
-behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
-The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
-neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
-maturely considering the spot.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
-“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
-was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”
-
-Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
-himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
-station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
-his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
-amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
-man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
-his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
-
-Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
-job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
-usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
-
-“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
-entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
-shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
-for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
-
-The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
-
-“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
-angry apprehension.
-
-“I am saying nothing.”
-
-“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
-You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
-yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
-but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
-ironical dissatisfaction.
-
-“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
-bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
-oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
-
-“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
-another bite.
-
-“Yes, I am.”
-
-“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
-
-“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
-where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”
-
-“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”
-
-“Never you mind.”
-
-“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
-
-“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
-gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
-going out, till you've been long abed.”
-
-He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
-most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
-conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
-to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
-conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
-on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
-he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
-person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
-honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
-professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
-
-“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
-honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
-of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
-tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
-on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
-customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”
-
-Then he began grumbling again:
-
-“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
-know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
-flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
-your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
-and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”
-
-This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
-perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
-all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
-function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
-
-Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
-was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
-obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
-solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
-o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
-took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
-forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
-fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
-in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
-extinguished the light, and went out.
-
-Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
-bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
-followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
-court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
-his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
-door stood ajar all night.
-
-Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
-father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
-walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
-honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
-gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
-the two trudged on together.
-
-Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
-winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
-lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
-that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
-second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
-himself into two.
-
-The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
-under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
-brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
-wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
-the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
-Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
-Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
-defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
-He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
-third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
-there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
-and knees.
-
-It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
-holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
-in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
-and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
-that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
-tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
-creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
-fish.
-
-They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
-appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
-Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
-striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
-with his hair as stiff as his father's.
-
-But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
-only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
-were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
-the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
-screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
-strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
-earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
-it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
-wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
-made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
-
-He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
-it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
-to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
-was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
-upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
-and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
-shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
-was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
-roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
-like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
-too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
-to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
-and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
-incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
-got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
-it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
-stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
-his breast when he fell asleep.
-
-From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
-daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
-family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
-inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
-ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
-bed.
-
-“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
-
-“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.
-
-“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
-and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
-you?”
-
-“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.
-
-“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
-honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
-husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”
-
-“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”
-
-“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
-honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
-when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
-wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
-woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
-no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
-of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”
-
-The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
-the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
-at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
-his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
-down too, and fell asleep again.
-
-There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
-Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
-by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
-he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
-and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
-ostensible calling.
-
-Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
-along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
-from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
-solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
-and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
-improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
-that fine morning.
-
-“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
-at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
-Resurrection-Man?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
-should I know?”
-
-“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.
-
-“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
-hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”
-
-“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.
-
-“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
-branch of Scientific goods.”
-
-“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.
-
-“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
-growed up!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
-“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
-your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
-there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
-for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
-to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
-himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
-yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”
-
-
-
-
-XV. Knitting
-
-
-There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
-Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
-through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
-measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
-of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
-he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
-influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
-vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
-Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
-the dregs of it.
-
-This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
-early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
-on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
-brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
-slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
-not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
-were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
-have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
-and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
-looks.
-
-Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
-was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
-threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
-only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
-wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
-and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
-humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
-
-A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
-observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
-at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
-gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
-towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
-of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
-with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
-a long way off.
-
-Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
-high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
-his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
-mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
-the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
-of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
-flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
-followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
-the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
-
-“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
-an answering chorus of “Good day!”
-
-“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.
-
-Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
-their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
-
-“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
-travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
-Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
-He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
-drink, my wife!”
-
-A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
-mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
-and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
-bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
-Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
-
-Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
-than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
-rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
-He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
-Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
-
-“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.
-
-“Yes, thank you.”
-
-“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
-occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”
-
-Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
-courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
-staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
-sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
-
-No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
-gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
-man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
-him through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
-
-“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
-encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
-Speak, Jacques Five!”
-
-The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
-it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”
-
-“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
-commencement.”
-
-“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
-running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
-chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
-going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
-hanging by the chain--like this.”
-
-Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
-he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
-the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
-during a whole year.
-
-Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
-
-“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
-
-Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
-
-“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
-finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
-'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”
-
-“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.
-
-“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
-confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
-offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
-standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
-My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”
-
-“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
-interrupted. “Go on!”
-
-“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
-is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”
-
-“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
-he is unluckily found. Go on!”
-
-“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
-go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
-village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
-coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
-with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”
-
-With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
-elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
-
-“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
-and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
-spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
-see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
-that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
-going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
-their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
-road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
-Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
-with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
-to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
-be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
-on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”
-
-He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
-vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
-
-“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
-show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
-our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
-village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
-follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
-shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
-consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”
-
-He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
-butt-ends of muskets.
-
-“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
-laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
-but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
-the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
-and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
-darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”
-
-He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
-snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
-opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”
-
-“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
-voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
-village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
-locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
-except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
-my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
-my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
-iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
-hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
-dead man.”
-
-Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
-of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
-countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
-authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
-and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
-his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
-intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
-over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
-standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
-light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
-him.
-
-“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.
-
-“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
-at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
-distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
-of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
-faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
-the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
-whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
-executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
-that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
-that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
-It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”
-
-“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
-“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
-yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
-sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
-hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
-his hand.”
-
-“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
-his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
-strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
-food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
-and struck him blows. You hear?”
-
-“I hear, messieurs.”
-
-“Go on then,” said Defarge.
-
-“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
-countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
-the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
-that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
-father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
-parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
-with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
-which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
-poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
-that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
-says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
-the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
-I am not a scholar.”
-
-“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
-and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
-all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
-nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
-the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
-attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
-when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
-done--why, how old are you?”
-
-“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
-
-“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
-it.”
-
-“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
-on.”
-
-“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
-even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
-night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
-the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
-Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
-the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
-water.”
-
-The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
-and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
-
-“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
-the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
-have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
-of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
-a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
-laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
-from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
-fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
-there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”
-
-They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
-on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
-spectacle.
-
-“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
-water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
-I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
-bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
-across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
-messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”
-
-The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
-three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
-
-“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
-and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
-warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
-walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
-you see me!”
-
-After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
-and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
-door?”
-
-“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
-top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
-
-The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
-the garret.
-
-“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”
-
-“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.
-
-“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.
-
-“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”
-
-The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
-gnawing another finger.
-
-“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
-can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
-safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
-be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”
-
-“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
-undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
-a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
-own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
-Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
-to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
-crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”
-
-There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
-hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
-very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”
-
-“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
-easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
-with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
-on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
-Court; let him see them on Sunday.”
-
-“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
-wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”
-
-“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
-to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
-him to bring it down one day.”
-
-Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
-dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
-pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
-asleep.
-
-Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
-in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
-dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
-new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
-unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
-his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
-he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
-contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
-might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
-into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
-murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
-with it until the play was played out.
-
-Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
-(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
-and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
-madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
-additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
-afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
-see the carriage of the King and Queen.
-
-“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.
-
-“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”
-
-“What do you make, madame?”
-
-“Many things.”
-
-“For instance--”
-
-“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”
-
-The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
-of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
-and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
-fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
-and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
-shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
-ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
-and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
-sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
-intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
-Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
-ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
-terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
-more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
-with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
-hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
-and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
-from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
-pieces.
-
-“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
-patron; “you are a good boy!”
-
-The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
-having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
-
-“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
-these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
-insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”
-
-“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”
-
-“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
-stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
-in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
-tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
-deceive them too much.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
-confirmation.
-
-“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
-it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”
-
-“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
-pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
-pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly yes, madame.”
-
-“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
-set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
-you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”
-
-“It is true, madame.”
-
-“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
-a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
-“now, go home!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI. Still Knitting
-
-
-Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
-bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
-darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
-the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
-the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
-the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
-for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
-scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
-stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
-terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
-the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
-village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
-when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
-faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
-up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
-look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
-stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
-was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
-everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
-scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
-crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
-skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
-started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
-who could find a living there.
-
-Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
-stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
-of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
-night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
-world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
-star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
-the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
-the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
-vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
-
-The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
-in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
-journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
-guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
-examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
-of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
-with, and affectionately embraced.
-
-When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
-and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
-picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
-streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
-
-“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
-
-“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
-commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
-can say, but he knows of one.”
-
-“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
-business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
-man?”
-
-“He is English.”
-
-“So much the better. His name?”
-
-“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
-been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
-correctness.
-
-“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”
-
-“John.”
-
-“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
-“Good. His appearance; is it known?”
-
-“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
-complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
-thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
-sinister.”
-
-“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
-registered to-morrow.”
-
-They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
-and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
-the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
-stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
-her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
-dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
-of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
-handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
-night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
-up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
-condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
-walked up and down through life.
-
-The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
-neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
-by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
-it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
-whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
-
-“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
-money. “There are only the usual odours.”
-
-“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.
-
-“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
-never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
-him. “Oh, the men, the men!”
-
-“But my dear!” began Defarge.
-
-“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
-faint of heart to-night, my dear!”
-
-“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
-breast, “it _is_ a long time.”
-
-“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
-Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”
-
-“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
-Defarge.
-
-“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
-the lightning? Tell me.”
-
-Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
-too.
-
-“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
-swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
-earthquake?”
-
-“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.
-
-“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
-before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
-seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”
-
-She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
-
-“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
-“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
-coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
-is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
-that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
-the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
-more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
-you.”
-
-“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
-a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
-attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
-it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
-it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”
-
-“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
-were another enemy strangled.
-
-“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
-“We shall not see the triumph.”
-
-“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
-strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
-my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
-certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
-would--”
-
-Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
-
-“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
-cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”
-
-“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
-and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
-When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
-time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”
-
-Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
-little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
-out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
-manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
-
-Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
-wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
-now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
-usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
-drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
-and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
-perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
-dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
-out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
-themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
-the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
-thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
-
-A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
-felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
-rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
-
-It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
-customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
-wine-shop.
-
-“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.
-
-“Good day, monsieur.”
-
-She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
-“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
-hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
-thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
-expression! Good day, one and all!”
-
-“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
-mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
-
-Madame complied with a polite air.
-
-“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
-
-It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
-Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
-however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
-visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
-of observing the place in general.
-
-“You knit with great skill, madame.”
-
-“I am accustomed to it.”
-
-“A pretty pattern too!”
-
-“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
-
-“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
-
-“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
-fingers moved nimbly.
-
-“Not for use?”
-
-“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
-madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
-coquetry, “I'll use it!”
-
-It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
-decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
-men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
-catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
-looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
-Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
-one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
-but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
-poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
-unimpeachable.
-
-“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
-and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
-'BARSAD' before you go.”
-
-“You have a husband, madame?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“Children?”
-
-“No children.”
-
-“Business seems bad?”
-
-“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
-
-“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”
-
-“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
-extra something into his name that boded him no good.
-
-“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
-Of course.”
-
-“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
-enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
-think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
-it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
-embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”
-
-The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
-not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
-stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
-Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
-
-“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
-Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
-
-“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
-for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
-price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”
-
-“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
-that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
-susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
-is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
-fellow? Between ourselves.”
-
-“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.
-
-“Is there not?”
-
-“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.
-
-As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
-him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
-Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
-
-“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
-confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
-
-“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
-“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”
-
-“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
-day!”
-
-“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.
-
-“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
-you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
-and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”
-
-“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
-of it.”
-
-Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
-hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
-person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
-have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
-attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
-water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
-out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
-it.
-
-“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
- observed Defarge.
-
-“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
-in its miserable inhabitants.”
-
-“Hah!” muttered Defarge.
-
-“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
- pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
-associations with your name.”
-
-“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.
-
-“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
-had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
-informed of the circumstances?”
-
-“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
-to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
-warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
-
-“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
-from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
-monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
-Tellson and Company--over to England.”
-
-“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.
-
-“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
-Manette and his daughter, in England.”
-
-“Yes?” said Defarge.
-
-“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.
-
-“No,” said Defarge.
-
-“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
-song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
-arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
-they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
-no correspondence.”
-
-“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”
-
-“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
-ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”
-
-“Oh! You know I am English.”
-
-“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
-suppose the man is.”
-
-He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
-of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
-end, he added:
-
-“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
-one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
-poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
-going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
-was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
-Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
-Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”
-
-Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
-effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
-as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
-troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
-spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
-
-Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
-worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
-paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
-in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
-pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
-after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
-husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
-come back.
-
-“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
-as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
-said of Ma'amselle Manette?”
-
-“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
-is probably false. But it may be true.”
-
-“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.
-
-“If it is?” repeated his wife.
-
-“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
-sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”
-
-“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
-“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
-to end him. That is all I know.”
-
-“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
-Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
-“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
-husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
-the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”
-
-“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
-madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
-for their merits; that is enough.”
-
-She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
-took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
-Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
-decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
-disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
-shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
-
-In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
-himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
-to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
-Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
-to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
-her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
-knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
-mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
-jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
-the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
-
-But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
-Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
-among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
-behind.
-
-Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
-great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
-grand woman!”
-
-Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
-the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
-the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
-darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
-pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
-thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
-wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
-Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
-knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
-a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
-counting dropping heads.
-
-
-
-
-XVII. One Night
-
-
-Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
-Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
-under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
-radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
-seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
-
-Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
-for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
-
-“You are happy, my dear father?”
-
-“Quite, my child.”
-
-They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
-was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
-in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
-both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
-time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
-
-“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
-love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
-for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
-if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
-the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
-self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”
-
-Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
-
-In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
-upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
-the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
-its going.
-
-“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
-quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
-ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
-own heart, do you feel quite certain?”
-
-Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
-scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
-added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
-seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
-was--without it.”
-
-“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”
-
-“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
-it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
-fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
-wasted--”
-
-She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
-the word.
-
-“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
-natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
-comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
-how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”
-
-“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
-with you.”
-
-He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
-without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
-
-“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
-Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
-should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
-cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”
-
-It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
-refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
-sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
-afterwards.
-
-“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
-“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
-light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
-of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
-my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
-that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
-could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
-with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
-manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
-and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”
-
-The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
-deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
-the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
-cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
-
-“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
-child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
-been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
-was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
-imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
-was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
-to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
-will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
-
-She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
-
-“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
-me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
-cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
-to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
-the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
-blank.”
-
-“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
-never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
-
-“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
-brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
-the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”
-
-“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”
-
-“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
-have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
-like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
-foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
-leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
-image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
-her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
-But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”
-
-“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”
-
-“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
-sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
-and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
-that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
-have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
-I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
-perplexed distinctions.”
-
-His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
-cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
-
-“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
-coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
-life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
-was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
-cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”
-
-“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
-that was I.”
-
-“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
-they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
-a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
-up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
-imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
-But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
-blessed her.”
-
-“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
-me as fervently to-morrow?”
-
-“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
-for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
-happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
-happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”
-
-He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
-Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
-house.
-
-There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
-be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
-change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
-by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
-apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
-
-Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
-three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
-was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
-little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
-
-So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
-But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
-downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
-beforehand.
-
-All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
-asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
-hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
-shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
-then, leaned over him, and looked at him.
-
-Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
-covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
-mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
-resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
-beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
-
-She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
-she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
-sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
-more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
-of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
-in praying for him.
-
-
-
-
-XVIII. Nine Days
-
-
-The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
-closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
-Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
-Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
-reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
-but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
-have been the bridegroom.
-
-“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
-and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
-pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
-you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
-what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
-on my friend Mr. Charles!”
-
-“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
-therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”
-
-“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”
-
-“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
-on occasion.)
-
-“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
-a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
-anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
-Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
-I couldn't see it.”
-
-“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
-had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
-invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
-speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
-might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”
-
-“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.
-
-“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
-gentleman of that name.
-
-“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
-
-“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
-seems probable, too.”
-
-“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
-were put in your cradle.”
-
-“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
-with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
-pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
-her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
-I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
-opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
-your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
-own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
-fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
-shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
-the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
-your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
-him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
-Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
-old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
-own.”
-
-For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
-well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
-golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
-delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
-
-The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
-Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
-went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
-But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
-shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
-old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
-wind.
-
-He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
-which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
-another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
-eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
-
-Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
-group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
-glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
-dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
-breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
-mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
-mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
-door at parting.
-
-It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
-cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
-enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”
-
-And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
-gone.
-
-The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
-preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
-and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
-the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
-change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
-there, had struck him a poisoned blow.
-
-He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
-expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
-the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
-manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
-room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
-wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
-
-“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
-think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
-I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
-presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
-there, and all will be well.”
-
-It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
-Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
-old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
-into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
-
-“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”
-
-Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
-lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
-He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”
-
-Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
-Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
-when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
-down, and he was very busy.
-
-“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”
-
-The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
-were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.
-
-He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
-throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
-haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
-hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
-shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
-him, and asked what it was.
-
-“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
-ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”
-
-“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”
-
-He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
-his work.
-
-“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
-occupation. Think, dear friend!”
-
-Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
-a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
-a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
-words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
-the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
-he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
-seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
-trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.
-
-Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
-all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
-the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
-conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
-precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
-few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
-on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
-called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
-two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
-addressed to her by the same post.
-
-These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
-the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
-another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
-thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
-
-In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
-being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
-attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
-therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
-first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
-room.
-
-He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
-to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
-attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
-before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
-fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
-window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
-natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
-
-Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
-that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
-after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
-When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
-and said to him:
-
-“Will you go out?”
-
-He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
-looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
-
-“Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
-Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
-with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
-some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
-business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
-
-Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
-at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
-time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
-fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
-bench and to work.
-
-On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
-and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
-returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
-that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
-to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
-at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
-present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
-amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
-enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
-friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
-appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
-him.
-
-When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
-
-“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”
-
-As before, he repeated, “Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
-from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
-meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
-sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
-slipped away to his bench.
-
-The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
-heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
-The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
-seven days, eight days, nine days.
-
-With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
-heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
-well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
-observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
-was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
-his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
-the dusk of the ninth evening.
-
-
-
-
-XIX. An Opinion
-
-
-Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
-tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
-into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
-night.
-
-He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
-done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
-Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
-and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
-at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
-Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
-studious and attentive.
-
-Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
-giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
-not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
-friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
-as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
-which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
-
-It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
-answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
-corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
-How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
-Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
-Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?
-
-Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
-had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
-resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
-He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
-breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
-had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
-Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
-the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
-
-Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
-out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
-toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
-white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
-usual way, and came to breakfast.
-
-So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
-delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
-advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
-place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
-the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
-counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
-he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
-he sought. And that aid was his own.
-
-Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
-Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
-
-“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
-very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
-very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
-so.”
-
-Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
-Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
-at his hands more than once.
-
-“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
-arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
-give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
-for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”
-
-“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
-shock--?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”
-
-Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
-
-“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
-of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
-the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
-shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
-long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
-are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
-which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
-himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
-the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
-be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
-great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
-stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
-there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”
-
-The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”
-
-“Nine days and nights.”
-
-“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
-resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”
-
-“That is the fact.”
-
-“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
-collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
-originally?”
-
-“Once.”
-
-“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
-respects--as he was then?”
-
-“I think in all respects.”
-
-“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”
-
-“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
-It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”
-
-The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
-very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
-the two spoke for a little while.
-
-“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
-considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
-and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
-possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
-intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
-I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
-relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
-be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
-about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
-more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
-if I knew how.
-
-“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
-knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
-able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
-Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
-and teach me how to be a little more useful.”
-
-Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
-Mr. Lorry did not press him.
-
-“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
-“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
-unforeseen by its subject.”
-
-“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
-
-“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
-
-“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
-mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
-himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”
-
-“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
-upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
-him?”
-
-“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
-believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”
-
-“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
-after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
-attack?”
-
-“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
-extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
-was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
-distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
-there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
-would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
-particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
-effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”
-
-“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
-with natural hesitation.
-
-The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
-answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
-
-“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
-
-“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
-great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
-should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
-something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
-and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
-the worst was over.”
-
-“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
-
-“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
-be instructed. I may go on?”
-
-“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
-hand.
-
-“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
-he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
-knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
-he do too much?”
-
-“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
-singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
-part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
-things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
-direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”
-
-“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
-
-“I think I am quite sure of it.”
-
-“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”
-
-“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
-violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
-
-“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
-that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
-disorder?”
-
-“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
-firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
-association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
-extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
-happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
-such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
-believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”
-
-He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
-would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
-confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
-endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
-confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
-really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
-be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
-conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
-last nine days, he knew that he must face it.
-
-“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
-so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
-will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
-case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
-time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
-found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
-him?”
-
-The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
-nervously on the ground.
-
-“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
-his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”
-
-Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
-ground.
-
-“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
-understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
-shook his head, and stopped.
-
-“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
-“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
-of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
-occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
-his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
-the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
-practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
-torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
-quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
-himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
-of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
-find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
-fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
-
-He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
-face.
-
-“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
-who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
-bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
-the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
-with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
-forge?”
-
-There was another silence.
-
-“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
-companion.”
-
-“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
-in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
-sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
-Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
-sake, my dear Manette!”
-
-Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
-
-“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
-it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
-let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
-passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
-three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
-day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
-had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
-explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
-she had no suspicions.
-
-On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
-his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
-carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
-guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
-Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
-which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
-burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
-purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
-shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
-and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
-while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
-traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
-crime.
-
-
-
-
-XX. A Plea
-
-
-When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
-offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
-many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
-in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
-about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
-
-He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
-speaking to him when no one overheard.
-
-“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
-
-“We are already friends, I hope.”
-
-“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
-mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
-friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
-
-Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
-good-fellowship, what he did mean?
-
-“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
-in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
-remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
-usual?”
-
-“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
-you had been drinking.”
-
-“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
-always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
-when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
-preach.”
-
-“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
-to me.”
-
-“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
-away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
-you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
-wish you would forget it.”
-
-“I forgot it long ago.”
-
-“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
-me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
-and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
-
-“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
-for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
-surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
-faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
-Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
-remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”
-
-“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
-you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
-don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
-say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”
-
-“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
-quarrel with _your_ light answer.”
-
-“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
-I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
-incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
-ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”
-
-“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
-
-“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
-any good, and never will.”
-
-“I don't know that you 'never will.'”
-
-“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
-to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
-reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
-permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
-be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
-resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
-furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
-doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
-should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
-dare say, to know that I had it.”
-
-“Will you try?”
-
-“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
-indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”
-
-“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
-
-They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
-afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
-
-When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
-Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
-this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
-problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
-bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
-him as he showed himself.
-
-He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
-wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
-her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
-marked.
-
-“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
-
-“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
-and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
-to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”
-
-“What is it, my Lucie?”
-
-“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
-ask it?”
-
-“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
-
-What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
-cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
-
-“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
-respect than you expressed for him to-night.”
-
-“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
-
-“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”
-
-“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”
-
-“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
-lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
-he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
-wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”
-
-“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
-astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
-of him.”
-
-“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
-scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
-now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
-even magnanimous things.”
-
-She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
-that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
-
-“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
-head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
-we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”
-
-The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
-Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”
-
-He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
-her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
-could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
-of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
-that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
-have parted from his lips for the first time--
-
-“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI. Echoing Footsteps
-
-
-A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
-the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
-her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
-companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
-the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
-years.
-
-At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
-when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
-dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
-afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
-Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
-doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
-her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
-footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
-be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
-eyes, and broke like waves.
-
-That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
-advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
-her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
-mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
-the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
-children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
-her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
-joy to her.
-
-Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
-weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
-their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
-echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
-step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
-Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
-unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
-plane-tree in the garden!
-
-Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
-harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
-pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
-smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
-leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
-tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
-departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
-forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
-
-Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
-echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
-of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
-mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
-murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
-the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
-dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
-the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
-
-The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
-half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
-uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
-done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
-regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
-all true echoes for ages and ages.
-
-No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
-blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
-but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
-delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
-such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
-was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
-and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
-him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”
-
-Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
-forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
-his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
-in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
-life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
-stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
-it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
-state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
-rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
-property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
-but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
-
-These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
-offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
-sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
-Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
-bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
-rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
-Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
-training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
-pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
-declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
-Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
-diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
-to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
-parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
-latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
-it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
-originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
-off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
-
-These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
-amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
-daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
-child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
-and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
-Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
-with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
-waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
-in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
-more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
-many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
-to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
-the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
-as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
-have too much to do?”
-
-But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
-in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
-little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
-as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
-
-On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
-Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
-her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
-all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
-lightning from the same place.
-
-“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
-I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
-business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
-to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
-run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
-to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
-among some of them for sending it to England.”
-
-“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--
-
-“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
-there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
-getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
-without due occasion.”
-
-“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”
-
-“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
-himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
-am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
-Manette?”
-
-“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
-
-“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
-which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
-reason. You are not going out, I hope?”
-
-“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
-Doctor.
-
-“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
-pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
-see.”
-
-“Of course, it has been kept for you.”
-
-“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”
-
-“And sleeping soundly.”
-
-“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
-otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
-all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
-come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
-the echoes about which you have your theory.”
-
-“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”
-
-“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
-are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”
-
-Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
-life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
-footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
-the dark London window.
-
-Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
-heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
-heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
-roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
-struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
-all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
-weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
-
-Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
-agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
-heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
-have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
-powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
-weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
-could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
-force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
-heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
-Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
-with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
-
-As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
-circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
-had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
-already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
-thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
-another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
-
-“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
-One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
-patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”
-
-“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
-knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
-in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
-and a cruel knife.
-
-“Where do you go, my wife?”
-
-“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
-of women, by-and-bye.”
-
-“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
-friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”
-
-With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
-into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
-depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
-beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
-began.
-
-Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
-towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
-the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
-a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
-wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
-
-Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
-cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
-all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
-Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
-the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
-wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
-
-“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
-the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
-cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
-revenge.
-
-Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
-drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
-displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
-weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
-at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
-execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
-furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
-single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
-towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
-by the service of Four fierce hours.
-
-A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
-perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
-the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
-wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
-walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
-
-So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
-draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
-struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
-outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
-made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
-Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
-inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
-exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
-furious dumb-show.
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-“The Records!”
-
-“The secret cells!”
-
-“The instruments of torture!”
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
-the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
-eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
-billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
-threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
-undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
-these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
-hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
-wall.
-
-“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
-there is no one there.”
-
-“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
-Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“The meaning, monsieur?”
-
-“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
-shall strike you dead?”
-
-“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
-
-“Monsieur, it is a cell.”
-
-“Show it me!”
-
-“Pass this way, then.”
-
-Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
-by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
-held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
-been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
-as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
-noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
-its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
-outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
-occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
-air like spray.
-
-Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
-hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
-and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
-waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
-linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
-there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
-but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
-tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
-and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
-to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
-come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
-
-The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
-the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
-in:
-
-“One hundred and five, North Tower!”
-
-There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
-with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
-stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
-across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
-on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
-the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
-
-“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
-Defarge to the turnkey.
-
-The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
-
-“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”
-
-“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
-
-“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
-with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
-wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
-a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
-me!”
-
-He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
-exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
-table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
-
-“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
-among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
- throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
-light higher, you!”
-
-With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
-peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
-and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
-and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
-in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
-into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
-cautious touch.
-
-“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”
-
-“Nothing.”
-
-“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
-them, you!”
-
-The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
-again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
-retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
-of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
-more.
-
-They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
-Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
-upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
-Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
-judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
-blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
-unavenged.
-
-In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
-encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
-decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
-woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
-“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
-remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
-the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
-close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
-be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
-long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
-when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
-upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.
-
-The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
-of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
-Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
-iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
-governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
-where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
-the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
-means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
-swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
-
-The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
-of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
-were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
-voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
-until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
-
-But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
-in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
-fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
-more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
-released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
-overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
-Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
-Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
-drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
-faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
-faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
-lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
-IT!”
-
-Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
-accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
-and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
-hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
-Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
-hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
-and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
-and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
-at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
-stained red.
-
-
-
-
-XXII. The Sea Still Rises
-
-
-Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
-his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
-the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
-Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
-Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
-Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
-themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
-portentously elastic swing with them.
-
-Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
-contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
-knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
-of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
-the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
-hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
-but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
-destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
-before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
-The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
-they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
-the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
-last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.
-
-Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
-to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
-sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
-grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
-already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
-
-“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”
-
-As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
-Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
-murmur came rushing along.
-
-“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”
-
-Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
-around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
- Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
-mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
-sprung to their feet.
-
-“Say then, my husband. What is it?”
-
-“News from the other world!”
-
-“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”
-
-“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
-that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”
-
-“Everybody!” from all throats.
-
-“The news is of him. He is among us!”
-
-“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”
-
-“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
-to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
-found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
-seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
-said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”
-
-Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
-never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
-could have heard the answering cry.
-
-A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
-steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
-was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
-
-“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”
-
-Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
-in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
-The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
-her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
-house, rousing the women.
-
-The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
-from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
-the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
-such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
-children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
-famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
-another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
-Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
-Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
-these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
-alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
-who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
-to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
-breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
-suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
-knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
-and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
-Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
-Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
-him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
-whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
-dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
-belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
-
-Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
-the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
-his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
-of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
-such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
-a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
-wailing children.
-
-No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
-this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
-open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
-and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
-from him in the Hall.
-
-“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
-with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
-Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
-under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
-
-The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
-her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
-others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
-clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
-and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
-expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
-a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
-wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
-to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
-telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
-
-At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
-protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
-too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
-stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
-him!
-
-It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
-had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
-wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
-her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
-had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
-perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
-out! Bring him to the lamp!”
-
-Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
-his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
-and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
-face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
-entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
-action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
-another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
-a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
-of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
-might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
-while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
-screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
-him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
-held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
-mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
-
-Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
-and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
-the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
-people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
-five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
-on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
-breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
-pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
-through the streets.
-
-Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
-wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
-long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
-they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
-embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
-again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
-frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
-slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
-common, afterwards supping at their doors.
-
-Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
-most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
-some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
-cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
-share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
-and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
-hoped.
-
-It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
-knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
-husky tones, while fastening the door:
-
-“At last it is come, my dear!”
-
-“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
-
-Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
-her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
-only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
-Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
-the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
-was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
-Antoine's bosom.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII. Fire Rises
-
-
-There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
-the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
-highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
-poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
-crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
-but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
-them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
-be what he was ordered.
-
-Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
-Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
-shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
-dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
-animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
-out.
-
-Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
-blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
-luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
-nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
-things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
-Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
-be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
-was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
-flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
-its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
-to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
-unaccountable.
-
-But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
-it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
-it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
-of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
-the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
-of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
-the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
-disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
-beautifying features of Monseigneur.
-
-For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
-dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
-to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
-thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
-he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
-and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
-foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
-a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
-without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
-aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
-mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
-highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
-with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
-
-Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
-as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
-could get from a shower of hail.
-
-The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
-and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
-in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
-intelligible:
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?”
-
-“All well, Jacques.”
-
-“Touch then!”
-
-They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
-
-“No dinner?”
-
-“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
-
-“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”
-
-He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
-steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
-it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
-thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
-
-“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
-time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
-
-“To-night?” said the mender of roads.
-
-“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
-
-“Where?”
-
-“Here.”
-
-He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
-one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
-of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
-
-“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
-
-“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
-here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”
-
-“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
-over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
-Well?”
-
-“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
-village.”
-
-“Good. When do you cease to work?”
-
-“At sunset.”
-
-“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
-resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
-wake me?”
-
-“Surely.”
-
-The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
-great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
-was fast asleep directly.
-
-As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
-away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
-by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
-now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
-heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
-his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
-The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
-red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
-beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
-and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
-of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
-footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
-with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
-leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
-sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
-secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
-with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
-Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
-drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
-this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
-looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
-obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
-
-The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
-brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
-of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
-them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
-the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
-to go down into the village, roused him.
-
-“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
-summit of the hill?”
-
-“About.”
-
-“About. Good!”
-
-The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
-according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
-squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
-appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
-When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
-as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
-curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
-together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
-looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
-chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
-alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
-chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
-the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
-to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
-
-The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
-solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
-the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
-flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
-swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
-the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
-stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
-had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
-heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
-branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
-lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
-was black again.
-
-But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
-visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
-Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
-picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
-and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
-Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
-stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
-
-A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
-there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
-spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
-space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
-Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
-impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
-mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
-with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
-sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.
-
-The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
-through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
-the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
-removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
-chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
-timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
-looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
-of lips, “It must burn.”
-
-As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
-village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
-fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
-lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
-every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
-occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
-Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
-that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
-authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
-and that post-horses would roast.
-
-The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
-raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
-infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
-and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
-torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
-two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
-again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
-and contending with the fire.
-
-The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
-scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
-figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
-lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
-dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
-heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
-splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
-birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
-trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
-roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
-destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
-abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.
-
-Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
-bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
-the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
-of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
-days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
-house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
-Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
-with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
-withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
-resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
-of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
-parapet, and crush a man or two below.
-
-Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
-distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
-combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
-ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
-which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
-A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
-the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
-Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
-rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
-and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
-while.
-
-Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
-other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
-the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
-had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
-less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
-functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
-in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
-North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
-The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
-no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
-successfully.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
-In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
-the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
-flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
-the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
-of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
-tissue of the life of her home.
-
-Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
-the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
-feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
-a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
-danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
-in.
-
-Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
-his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
-to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
-this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
-infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
-ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
-boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
-and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
-sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
-
-The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
-mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
-eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
-Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
-out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
-outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
-all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
-“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
-
-The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
-come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
-
-As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
-Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
-haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
-without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
-Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
-to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
-house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
-from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
-storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
-provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
-by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
-from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
-a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
-time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
-was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
-consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
-out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
-through Temple Bar to read.
-
-On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
-Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
-penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
-the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
-hour or so of the time of closing.
-
-“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
-Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”
-
-“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
-disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
-
-“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
-some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
-enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
-upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
-interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
-disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
-House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
-old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
-long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
-myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
-these years, who ought to be?”
-
-“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
-and like one thinking aloud.
-
-“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
-Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
-are a wise counsellor.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
-thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
-my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
-the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
-here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
-and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
-after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
-
-“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
-are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
-France at this time of day!”
-
-“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
-more to the purpose that you say you are.”
-
-“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
-glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
-conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
-of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
-Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
-of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
-might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
-afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
-with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
-getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
-precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
-I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
-bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
-the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
-
-“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
-the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
-Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
-impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
-to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
-whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
-every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
-the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
-as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
-
-“And do you really go to-night?”
-
-“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
-delay.”
-
-“And do you take no one with you?”
-
-“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
-to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
-bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
-Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
-of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
-master.”
-
-“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
-youthfulness.”
-
-“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
-commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
-live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
-
-This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
-Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
-would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
-much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
-was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
-terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
-the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
-omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
-millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
-should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
-years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
-vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
-restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
-and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
-without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
-such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
-in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
-already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
-
-Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
-way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
-to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
-them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
-accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
-of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
-with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
-going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
-word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
-
-The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
-before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
-whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
-that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
-name. The address, turned into English, ran:
-
-“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
-France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
-London, England.”
-
-On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
-express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
-be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
-between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
-suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
-
-“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
-I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
-gentleman is to be found.”
-
-The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
-was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
-held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
-person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
-it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
-and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
-English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
-
-“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
-polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
-knew him.”
-
-“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
-been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
-hay--“some years ago.”
-
-“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
-through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
-Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
-the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
-
-“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
-fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
-
-Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
-the shoulder, and said:
-
-“I know the fellow.”
-
-“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
-times.”
-
-“But I do ask why?”
-
-“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
-hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
-who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
-ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
-that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
-man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
-because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
-why.”
-
-Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
-said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”
-
-“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
-Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
-understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
-tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
-to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
-gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
-“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
-find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
-precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
-of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
-
-With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
-shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
-his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
-in the general departure from the Bank.
-
-“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
-deliver it?”
-
-“I do.”
-
-“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
-addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
-that it has been here some time?”
-
-“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
-
-“From here, at eight.”
-
-“I will come back, to see you off.”
-
-Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
-Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
-letter, and read it. These were its contents:
-
-
-“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
-
-“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
-
-“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
-village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
-brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
-great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
-ground.
-
-“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
-life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
-the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
-emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
-against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
-before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
-imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
-had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
-an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
-
-“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
-emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
-not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
-ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
-
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
-succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
-Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
-
-“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
-nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
-assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
-
-“Your afflicted,
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-
-The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
-by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
-only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
-reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
-considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
-
-He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
-the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
-resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
-conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
-he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
-his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
-mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
-systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
-do it, and that it had never been done.
-
-The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
-always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
-which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
-annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
-following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
-these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
-without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
-the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
-until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
-France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
-confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
-was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
-France that might impeach him for it.
-
-But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
-far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
-relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
-favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
-bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
-on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
-there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
-in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
-the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
-own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
-
-This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
-that he would go to Paris.
-
-Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
-him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
-to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
-him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
-attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
-worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
-could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
-trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
-and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
-him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
-brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
-(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
-which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
-coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
-letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
-justice, honour, and good name.
-
-His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
-
-Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
-struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
-with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
-it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
-gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
-it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
-sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
-saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
-Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
-
-As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
-neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
-Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
-reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
-should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
-the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
-situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
-to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
-discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
-in his course.
-
-He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
-return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
-in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
-nothing of his intention now.
-
-A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
-booted and equipped.
-
-“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
-would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
-perhaps you will take a verbal one?”
-
-“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”
-
-“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
-
-“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
-hand.
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
-
-“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
-
-“Any time mentioned?”
-
-“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
-
-“Any person mentioned?”
-
-“No.”
-
-He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
-and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
-misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
-Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
- Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
-rolled away.
-
-That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
-two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
-he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
-that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
-personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
-their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
-strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
-in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
-
-It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
-reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
-preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
-But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
-resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
-so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
-the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
-scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
-(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
-of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
-streets, with a heavier heart.
-
-The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
-and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
-two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
-midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
-his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
-floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
-
-
-The end of the second book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
-
-
-
-I. In Secret
-
-
-The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
-England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
-ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
-horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
-unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
-but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
-these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
-citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
-of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
-inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
-turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
-hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
-Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
-Death.
-
-A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
-Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
-was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
-at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
-Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
-the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
-the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
-watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
-or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
-felt his freedom more completely gone.
-
-This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
-times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
-riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
-by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
-days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
-a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
-
-Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
-prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
-guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
-to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
-a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
-had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
-
-Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
-red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
-
-“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
-under an escort.”
-
-“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
-dispense with the escort.”
-
-“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
-of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”
-
-“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
-are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”
-
-“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.
-
-“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
-not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”
-
-“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
-and dress yourself, emigrant.”
-
-Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
-patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
-a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
-started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.
-
-The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
-cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
-side of him.
-
-The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
-his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
-wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
-faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
-and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
-change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
-between them and the capital.
-
-They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
-lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
-that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
-shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
-being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
-as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
-his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
-that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
-he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
-of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
-confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
-
-But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
-when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
-himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
-gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
-out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”
-
-He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
-resuming it as his safest place, said:
-
-“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
-will?”
-
-“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
-furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
-aristocrat!”
-
-The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
-bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
-be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”
-
-“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
-as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.
-
-Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
-yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
-the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
-voice heard:
-
-“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
-traitor.”
-
-“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
-is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”
-
-At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
-another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
-horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
-and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
-struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
-more was done.
-
-“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
-postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
-
-“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”
-
-“When passed?”
-
-“On the fourteenth.”
-
-“The day I left England!”
-
-“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
-others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
-condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
-your life was not your own.”
-
-“But there are no such decrees yet?”
-
-“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
-may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”
-
-They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
-then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
-wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
-unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
-lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
-cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
-would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
-circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
-up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
-Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
-into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
-wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
-that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
-the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
-way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
-
-Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
-closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
-
-“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
-in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
-
-Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
-speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
-in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
-imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.
-
-“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
-whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
-
-The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
-eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
-disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
-
-He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
-into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
-gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
-Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
-patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
-into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
-traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
-people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
-to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
-forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
-filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
-their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
-ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
-about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
-and women.
-
-When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
-things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
-who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
-escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
-to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
-turned and rode away without entering the city.
-
-He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
-and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
-drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
-waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
-light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
-the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
-uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
-officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
-
-“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
-paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
-
-“This is the man.”
-
-“Your age, Evremonde?”
-
-“Thirty-seven.”
-
-“Married, Evremonde?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Where married?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
-Force.”
-
-“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
-
-The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
-
-“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
-said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
-
-“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
-to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
-demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
-my right?”
-
-“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
-wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
-sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”
-
-Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
-him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
-them.
-
-“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
-guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
-Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
-
-“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
-Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”
-
-“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”
-
-The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
-with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
-and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”
-
-“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
-truth?”
-
-“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
-looking straight before him.
-
-“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
-sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
-little help?”
-
-“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
-
-“Will you answer me a single question?”
-
-“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”
-
-“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
-communication with the world outside?”
-
-“You will see.”
-
-“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
-presenting my case?”
-
-“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
-in worse prisons, before now.”
-
-“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”
-
-Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
-and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
-there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
-He, therefore, made haste to say:
-
-“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
-than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
-Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
-the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
-prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”
-
-“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
-my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
-I will do nothing for you.”
-
-Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
-was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
-how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
-streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
-their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
-otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
-more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
-going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
-passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
-audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
-family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
-it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
-foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
-Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
-watchfulness had completely isolated him.
-
-That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
-developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
-perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
-yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
-might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
-of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
-the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
-was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
-hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
-rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
-garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
-been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
-called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
-of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
-probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
-they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
-
-Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
-from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
-certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
-his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
-arrived at the prison of La Force.
-
-A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
-presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”
-
-“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
-bloated face.
-
-Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
-with his two fellow-patriots.
-
-“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
-“How many more!”
-
-The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
-replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
-responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
-the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
-conclusion.
-
-The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
-horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
-flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
-are ill cared for!
-
-“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
-if I was not already full to bursting!”
-
-He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
-awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
-fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
-either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
-subordinates.
-
-“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
-emigrant.”
-
-Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
-corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
-until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
-prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
-and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
-most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
-room.
-
-In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
-disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
-unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
-receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
-all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
-
-So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
-gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
-misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
-in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
-of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
-frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
-waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
-that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
-
-It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
-gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
-in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
-coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
-there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
-mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
-likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
-utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
-of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
-
-“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
-gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
-honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
-on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
-happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
-to ask your name and condition?”
-
-Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
-words as suitable as he could find.
-
-“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
-eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”
-
-“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
-so.”
-
-“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
-members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
-but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
-the society--in secret.”
-
-There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
-to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
-which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
-him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
-render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
-the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
-
-The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
-ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
-them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
-solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
-
-“Yours,” said the gaoler.
-
-“Why am I confined alone?”
-
-“How do I know!”
-
-“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”
-
-“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
-present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”
-
-There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
-the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
-walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
-the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
-was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
-a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
-gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
-dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
-with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
-is the first condition of the body after death.”
-
-“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
-paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
-counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
-drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
-shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
-paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
-“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
-them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
-embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
-hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
-through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
-made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
-a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
-his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
-and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
-still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
-knew, in the swell that rose above them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Grindstone
-
-
-Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
-in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
-the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
-a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
-troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
-mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
-metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
-of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
-besides the cook in question.
-
-Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
-sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
-willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
-indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
-house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
-things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
-precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
-of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
-Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
-drinking brandy in its state apartments.
-
-A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
-would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
-For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
-said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
-over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
-Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
-linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
-night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
-Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
-the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
-also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
-provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
-exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
-taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
-
-What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
-lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
-Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
-and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
-Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
-the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
-a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
-prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
-deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
-room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.
-
-He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
-he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
-derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
-building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
-that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
-his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
-was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
-of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
-great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
-open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
-to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
-or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
-objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
-opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
-he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.
-
-From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
-the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
-in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
-nature were going up to Heaven.
-
-“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
-dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
-who are in danger!”
-
-Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
-“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
-irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
-clash again, and all was quiet.
-
-The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
-uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
-awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
-go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
-opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
-amazement.
-
-Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
-that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
-seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
-force and power to it in this one passage of her life.
-
-“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
-matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
-What is it?”
-
-With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
-out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”
-
-“Your husband, Lucie?”
-
-“Charles.”
-
-“What of Charles?”
-
-“Here.
-
-“Here, in Paris?”
-
-“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
-collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
-us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”
-
-The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
-bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
-came pouring into the courtyard.
-
-“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
-don't touch the blind!”
-
-The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
-said, with a cool, bold smile:
-
-“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
-a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
-France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
-touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
-My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
-barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
-knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
-told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
-dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
-terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
-having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
-this fatal place. What prison is he in?”
-
-“La Force!”
-
-“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
-your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
-do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
-I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
-you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
-to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
-instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
-room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
-two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
-delay.”
-
-“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
-nothing else than this. I know you are true.”
-
-The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
-key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
-partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
-looked out with him into the courtyard.
-
-Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
-enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
-people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
-had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
-there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
-
-But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
-
-The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
-men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
-the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
-the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
-False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
-hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
-howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
-sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
-forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
-held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
-blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
-struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
-fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
-the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
-sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
-over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
-upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
-and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
-and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
-sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
-the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
-of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
-as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
-of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
-their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
-given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
-
-All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
-any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
-were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
-explanation in his friend's ashy face.
-
-“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
-the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
-say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
-have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
-may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”
-
-Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
-and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
-
-His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
-confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
-carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
-For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
-the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
-surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
-linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
-cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
-kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
-the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.
-
-He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
-and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
-assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
-her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
-surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
-watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
-
-Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
-clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
-bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
-charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
-the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
-
-Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
-irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
-“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
-sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
-and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”
-
-Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
-Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
-from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
-besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
-to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
-the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
-Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
-the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
-climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
-dainty cushions.
-
-The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
-and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
-alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
-never given, and would never take away.
-
-
-
-
-III. The Shadow
-
-
-One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
-Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
-imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
-the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
-for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
-he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
-man of business.
-
-At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
-the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
-the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
-same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
-most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
-its dangerous workings.
-
-Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
-tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
-that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
-Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
-this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
-he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
-went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
-in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
-of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
-
-To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
-giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
-He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
-considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
-A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
-and heavily the day lagged on with him.
-
-It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
-was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
-do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
-man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
-addressed him by his name.
-
-“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”
-
-He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
-to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
-emphasis, the words:
-
-“Do you know me?”
-
-“I have seen you somewhere.”
-
-“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”
-
-Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
-Manette?”
-
-“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”
-
-“And what says he? What does he send me?”
-
-Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
-words in the Doctor's writing:
-
- “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
- I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
- from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.”
-
-It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
-
-“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
-this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”
-
-“Yes,” returned Defarge.
-
-Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
-way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
-courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
-
-“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
-the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
-
-“It is she,” observed her husband.
-
-“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
-they moved.
-
-“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
-It is for their safety.”
-
-Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
-at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
-The Vengeance.
-
-They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
-ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
-and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
-tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
-delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
-the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
-
- “DEAREST,--Take courage. I am well, and your father has
- influence around me. You cannot answer this.
- Kiss our child for me.”
-
-That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
-it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
-hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
-action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
-to its knitting again.
-
-There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
-the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
-neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
-eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
-
-“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
-risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
-trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
-to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
-may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
-reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
-upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”
-
-Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
-gruff sound of acquiescence.
-
-“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
-propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
-good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
-French.”
-
-The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
-match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
-appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
-whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
-_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
-Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
-
-“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
-first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
-were the finger of Fate.
-
-“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
-daughter, and only child.”
-
-The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
-threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
-kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
-shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
-threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.
-
-“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
-may go.”
-
-But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
-presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
-she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:
-
-“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
-help me to see him if you can?”
-
-“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
-down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
-who is my business here.”
-
-“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
-will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
-afraid of you than of these others.”
-
-Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
-Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
-collected his face into a sterner expression.
-
-“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
-Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
-influence?”
-
-“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
-breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
-much influence around him.”
-
-“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”
-
-“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
-have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
-my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
-of me. As a wife and mother!”
-
-Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
-turning to her friend The Vengeance:
-
-“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
-as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
-known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
-often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
-themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
-sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”
-
-“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.
-
-“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
-again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
-and mother would be much to us now?”
-
-She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
-went last, and closed the door.
-
-“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
-courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
-late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”
-
-“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
-shadow on me and on all my hopes.”
-
-“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
-little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”
-
-But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
-for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Calm in Storm
-
-
-Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
-absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
-kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
-not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
-know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
-ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
-darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
-tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
-the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
-some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
-which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
-scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
-found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
-brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
-to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
-to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
-had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
-years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
-body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
-man was Defarge.
-
-That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
-that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
-to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
-dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
-and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
-a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
-to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
-examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
-the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
-to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
-the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
-the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
-inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
-was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
-Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
-assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
-delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
-often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
-had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
-
-The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
-intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
-saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
-those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
-been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
-thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
-the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
-in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
-of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
-awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
-with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
-carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
-anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
-with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
-
-As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
-his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
-such dread experiences would revive the old danger.
-
-But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
-at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
-felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
-he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
-could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
-“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
-As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
-helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
-of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
-the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
-of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
-clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
-had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
-
-Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
-have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
-in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
-of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
-personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
-of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
-that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
-general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
-messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
-sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
-not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
-plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
-known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.
-
-This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
-sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
-Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
-but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
-time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
-and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
-Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
-that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
-ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
-that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
-trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
-and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
-affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
-rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
-curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
-natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
-couldn't be in better hands.”
-
-But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
-Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
-the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
-era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
-against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
-great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
-against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
-of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
-had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
-alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
-the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
-and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
-fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
-What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
-One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
-and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!
-
-There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
-measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
-time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
-count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
-of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
-unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
-head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
-head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
-widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
-
-And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
-all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
-revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
-revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
-which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
-any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
-with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
-these things became the established order and nature of appointed
-things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
-Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
-the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
-sharp female called La Guillotine.
-
-It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
-it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
-peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
-shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
-and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
-human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
-from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
-believed in where the Cross was denied.
-
-It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
-were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
-Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
-the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
-good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
-dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
-The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
-functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
-namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
-day.
-
-Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
-with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
-end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
-current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
-away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
-months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
-wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
-that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
-violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
-under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
-terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
-that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
-in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
-victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
-appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
-other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
-he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
-a Spirit moving among mortals.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wood-Sawyer
-
-
-One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
-sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
-husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
-tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
-women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
-old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
-daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
-and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
-Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
-bestow, O Guillotine!
-
-If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
-had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
-despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
-the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
-the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
-truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
-will always be.
-
-As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
-had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
-household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
-its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
-as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
-slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
-that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
-return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
-solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
-unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
-outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
-
-She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
-mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
-attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
-and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
-thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
-night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
-repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
-was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
-without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”
-
-They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
-father said to her, on coming home one evening:
-
-“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
-sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
-it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
-in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
-show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
-if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”
-
-“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”
-
-From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
-clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
-When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
-went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
-single day.
-
-It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
-of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
-end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
-her.
-
-“Good day, citizeness.”
-
-“Good day, citizen.”
-
-This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
-established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
-but, was now law for everybody.
-
-“Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“You see me, citizen!”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
-had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
-at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
-bars, peeped through them jocosely.
-
-“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.
-
-Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
-appeared.
-
-“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
-
-“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
-
-“Yes, dearest.”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
-call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
-comes!”
-
-The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
-
-“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
-Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
-Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
-family!”
-
-Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
-impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
-his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
-first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
-
-He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
-him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
-up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
-with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
-not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
-briskly fall to his sawing again.
-
-In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
-spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
-in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
-this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
-Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
-five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
-for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
-see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
-waited out the day, seven days a week.
-
-These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
-father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
-afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
-rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
-decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
-also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
-(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
-
-The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
-surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
-somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
-with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
-and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
-saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
-female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
-was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
-
-But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
-and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
-afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
-prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
-The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
-they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
-than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
-keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
-Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
-together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
-mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
-filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
-apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
-advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
-another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
-in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
-linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
-and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
-all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
-reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
-again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
-of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
-up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
-as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
-innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
-a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
-heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
-warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
-bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
-delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
-the disjointed time.
-
-This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
-bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
-fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
-
-“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
-had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
-
-“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
-frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”
-
-“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
-husband, and the mercies of these people--”
-
-“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
-the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
-kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
-
-“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
-
-“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
-
-“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
-“no.”
-
-A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
- from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
-Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
-
-“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
-and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
-“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-“For to-morrow!”
-
-“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
-to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
-before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
-that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
-Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”
-
-She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
-
-“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
-be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
-protection. I must see Lorry.”
-
-He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
-both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
-away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
-
-“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
-
-The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
-and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
-and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
-better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
-hold his peace.
-
-A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
-the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
-Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
-deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
-National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
-Fraternity, or Death!
-
-Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
-chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
-agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
-he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
-turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
-he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
-
-
-
-
-VI. Triumph
-
-
-The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
-Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
-read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
-standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
-inside there!”
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
-
-So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
-
-When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
-for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
-Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
-hundreds pass away so.
-
-His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
-to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
-list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
-names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
-summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
-guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
-where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
-arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
-creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
-scaffold.
-
-There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
-soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
-were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
-concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
-there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
-refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
-common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
-who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
-insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
-time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
-or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
-brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
-boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
-seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
-disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
-like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
-them.
-
-The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
-vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
-put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
-were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.
-
-His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
-and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
-at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
-usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
-honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
-without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
-spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
-anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
-the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
-knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
-knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
-her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
-he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
-remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
-his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
-in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
-himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
-be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
-the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
-in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
-Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
-wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
-Carmagnole.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
-as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
-which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
-decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
-the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
-
-“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”
-
-The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
-prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
-England?
-
-Undoubtedly it was.
-
-Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
-
-Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
-
-Why not? the President desired to know.
-
-Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
-to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
-his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
-acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
-England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
-
-What proof had he of this?
-
-He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
-Alexandre Manette.
-
-But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
-
-True, but not an English woman.
-
-A citizeness of France?
-
-Yes. By birth.
-
-Her name and family?
-
-“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
-sits there.”
-
-This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
-of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
-the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
-countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
-if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
-
-On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
-according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
-counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
-inch of his road.
-
-The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
-sooner?
-
-He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
-of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
-he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
-He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
-a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
-absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
-testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
-in the eyes of the Republic?
-
-The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
-bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
- until they left off, of their own will.
-
-The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
-that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
-to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
-but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
-the President.
-
-The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
-it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
-and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
-Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
-pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
-enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
-overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
-of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
-had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
-declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
-answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
-called Darnay.
-
-Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
-and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
-proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
-release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
-England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
-their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
-government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
-the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
-circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
-straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
-populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
-Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
-had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
-account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
-they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
-receive them.
-
-At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
-set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
-favour, and the President declared him free.
-
-Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
-sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
-generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
-their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
-these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
-to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
-was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
-at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
-prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
-his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
-exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
-people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
-the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
-streets.
-
-His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
-rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
-together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
-assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
-itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
-him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
-hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
-of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
-Republic!”
-
-The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
-for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
-crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
-Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
-concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
-turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
-which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
-shore.
-
-They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
-taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
-Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
-had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
-even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
-on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
-and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
-he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
-was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
-
-In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
-him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
-prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
-they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
-him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
-had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
-feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
-
-As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
-face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
-together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
-rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
-Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
-crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
-overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
-and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
-them away.
-
-After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
-before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
-breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
-after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
-his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
-lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
-rooms.
-
-“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
-
-“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
-prayed to Him.”
-
-They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
-his arms, he said to her:
-
-“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
-could have done what he has done for me.”
-
-She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
-head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
-had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
-strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
-tremble so. I have saved him.”
-
-
-
-
-VII. A Knock at the Door
-
-
-“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
-often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
-vague but heavy fear was upon her.
-
-All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
-revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
-vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
-many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
-her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
-heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
-The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
-the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
-them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
-his real presence and trembled more.
-
-Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
-woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
-no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
-he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
-them all lean upon him.
-
-Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
-the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
-because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
-had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
-the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
-partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
-citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
-occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
-Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
-night.
-
-It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
-Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
-house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
-of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
-Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
-below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
-himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
-employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
-Darnay.
-
-In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
-harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
-in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
-were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
-shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
-possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
-
-For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
-office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
-basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
-lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
-such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
-association with a French family, might have known as much of their
-language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
-direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
-pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
-was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
-introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
-the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
-of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
-made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
-one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
-
-“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
-“if you are ready, I am.”
-
-Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
-all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
-
-“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
-have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
-these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
-
-“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
- retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”
-
-“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
-Nick's.”
-
-“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
-meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
-and Mischief.”
-
-“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.
-
-“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
-among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
-smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
-streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
-Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
-pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
-May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”
-
-“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.
-
-“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
-that,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
-
-“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
-short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
-Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
-as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
-tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
-after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
-
-“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
-had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
-“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
-way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
-with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
-prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
-
-“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
-
-“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
-glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
-must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
-fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
-you move, Ladybird!”
-
-They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
-child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
-Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
-a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
-sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
-in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
-a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
-a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
-quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
-
-“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
-
-“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
-on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
-least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”
-
-“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
-and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
-
-“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
-
-As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
-
-“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
-
-“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
-shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
-to the door.”
-
-He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
-and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
-men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
-
-“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
-
-“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
-
-“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
-Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”
-
-The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
-to him.
-
-“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”
-
-“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
-know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
-stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
-moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
-the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
-woollen shirt, said:
-
-“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
-
-“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
-
-“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
-
-He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
-after a pause:
-
-“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
-the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
-had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
-
-The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
-
-“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
-
-“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
-more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
-a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
-The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”
-
-“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”
-
-“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
-Antoine here.”
-
-The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
-feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
-
-“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
-the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”
-
-“What other?”
-
-“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
-answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
-
-
-
-
-VIII. A Hand at Cards
-
-
-Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
-way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
-Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
-she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
-both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
-passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
-turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
-was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
-lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
-stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
-Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
-undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
-grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
-
-Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
-for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
-After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
-once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
-took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
-description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
-not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
-opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
-attended by her cavalier.
-
-Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
-playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
-bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
-the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
-resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
-popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
-like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
-the counter, and showed what they wanted.
-
-As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
-corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
-sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
-her hands.
-
-In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
-assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
-likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
-saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
-the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
-evidently English.
-
-What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
-voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
-Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
-ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
-not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
-Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
-account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.
-
-“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
-speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
-English.
-
-“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
-“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
-do I find you here!”
-
-“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
-man, in a furtive, frightened way.
-
-“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
-been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
-
-“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
-want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”
-
-Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
-affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”
-
-“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”
-
-Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
-word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
-through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
-so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
-of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
-language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
-pursuits.
-
-“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
-want?”
-
-“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
-from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
-affection.”
-
-“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
-lips with his own. “Now are you content?”
-
-Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
-
-“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
-surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
-you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
-do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
-am an official.”
-
-“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
-tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
-greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
-such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
-his--”
-
-“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
-the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
-as I am getting on!”
-
-“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
-rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
-loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
-and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
-detain you no longer.”
-
-Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
-culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
-ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
-her money and left her!
-
-He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
-condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
-merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
-all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
-hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
-question:
-
-“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
-or Solomon John?”
-
-The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
-previously uttered a word.
-
-“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
-was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
-calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
-you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
-name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
-was, over the water.”
-
-“No?”
-
-“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
-at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
-yourself, was you called at that time?”
-
-“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
-
-“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
-
-The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
-him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
-elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
-
-“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
-surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
-elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
-myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
-better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
-was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”
-
-Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
-who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
-
-“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
-of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
-an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
-faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
-a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
-the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
-direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
-sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
-conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
-nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
-to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“What purpose?” the spy asked.
-
-“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
-street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
-company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”
-
-“Under a threat?”
-
-“Oh! Did I say that?”
-
-“Then, why should I go there?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”
-
-“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
-
-“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”
-
-Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
-quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
-and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
-made the most of it.
-
-“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
-sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
-
-“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
-But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
-pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
-satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”
-
-“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”
-
-“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
-own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
-at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
-knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
-ready? Come then!”
-
-Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
-remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
-in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
-purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
-contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
-too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
-her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
-heed what she observed.
-
-They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
-Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
-Pross, walked at his side.
-
-Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
-little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
-picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
-into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
-ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
-which he saw a stranger.
-
-“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
-with the name--and with the face.”
-
-“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
-coolly. “Pray sit down.”
-
-As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
-by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
-immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
-look of abhorrence.
-
-“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
-brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
-relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”
-
-Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
-tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
-to return to him!”
-
-“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Just now, if at all.”
-
-“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
-have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
-over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
-messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
-earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
-of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
-might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
-silently attentive.
-
-“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
-Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
-would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”
-
-“Yes; I believe so.”
-
-“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
-to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
-power to prevent this arrest.”
-
-“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
-identified he is with his son-in-law.”
-
-“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
-chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.
-
-“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
-are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
-will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
-carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
-stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
-in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
-Barsad.”
-
-“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
-
-“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
-brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
-
-It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
-glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
-
-“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
-over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
-committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
-so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
-is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
-Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
-That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
-French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
-English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
-card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
-Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
-spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
-the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
-difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
-hand, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
-
-“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
-Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
-hurry.”
-
-He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
-drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
-into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
-poured out and drank another glassful.
-
-“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
-
-It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
-in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
-employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
-there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
-vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
-date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
-France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
-there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
-knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
-Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
-such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
-release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
-familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
-Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
-with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
-talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
-He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
-again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
-guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
-he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
-he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
-his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
-terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
-grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
-that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
-proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
-his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
-terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
-the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
-
-“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
-composure. “Do you play?”
-
-“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
-Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
-put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
-under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
-of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
-considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
-somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
-himself as to make himself one?”
-
-“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
-and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
-
-“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
-hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”
-
-“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
-relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“You think not, sir?”
-
-“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
-
-The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
-ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
-received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
-mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
-failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
-of contemplating cards:
-
-“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
-have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
-fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
-who was he?”
-
-“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
-
-“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
-at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”
-
-“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
-
-“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
-way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
-the face.”
-
-“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.
-
-“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
-glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
-French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”
-
-“Provincial,” said the spy.
-
-“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
-light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
-had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”
-
-“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
-aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
-me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
-distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
-attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
-of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
-multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
-to lay him in his coffin.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
-goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
-to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
-risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
-
-“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
-how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
-lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
-carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
-it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
-it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
-Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
-violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
-crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
-
-Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
-the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
-
-“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
-iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Who took him out of it?”
-
-Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”
-
-“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
-I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
-
-The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
-unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.
-
-“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
-that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
-take in. Me and two more knows it.”
-
-“How do you know it?”
-
-“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
-old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
-I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
-
-Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
-this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
-explain himself.
-
-“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
-ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
-wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
-in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
-throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
-quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”
-
-“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
-Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
-you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
-aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
-the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
-A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
-card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”
-
-“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
-with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
-of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
-he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
-man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
-
-“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
-Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
-that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
-be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
-liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
-guinea.”
-
-The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
-with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
-can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
-Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
-office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
-life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
-I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
-here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
-way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
-me?”
-
-“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”
-
-“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
- said the spy, firmly.
-
-“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
-Conciergerie?”
-
-“I am sometimes.”
-
-“You can be when you choose?”
-
-“I can pass in and out when I choose.”
-
-Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
-upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
-said, rising:
-
-“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
-the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
-into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Game Made
-
-
-While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
-dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
-at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
-manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
-leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
-and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
-questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
-his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
-hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
-infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
-of him.
-
-“What have you been, besides a messenger?”
-
-After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
-Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
-character.”
-
-“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
-at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
-as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
-description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
-get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
-Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
-
-“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
-yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
-would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
-is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
-it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
-to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
-up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
-fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
-yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
-their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
-out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
-Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
-goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
-in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
-a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
-ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
-it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
-and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
-undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
-with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
-much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
-prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
-all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
-once in--even if it wos so.”
-
-“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
-the sight of you.”
-
-“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
-“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”
-
-“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
-further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
-would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
-that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
-be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
-your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
-wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
-you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
-his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
-let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
-for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
-a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
-That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
-arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
-discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
-see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
-without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
-to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
-things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
-fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
-cause when I might have kep' it back.”
-
-“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
-that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
-action--not in words. I want no more words.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
-returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
-arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
-
-He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
-were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
-
-“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
-to him, once.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
-
-“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
-to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
-worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
-weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”
-
-“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
-Tribunal, will not save him.”
-
-“I never said it would.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
-darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
-weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
-and his tears fell.
-
-“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
-voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
-father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
-sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
-however.”
-
-Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
-was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
-that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
-unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
-
-“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
-interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
-him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
-to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
-see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
-evidently understood it.
-
-“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
-only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
-I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
-little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
-You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”
-
-“I am going now, directly.”
-
-“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
-on you. How does she look?”
-
-“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
-
-“Ah!”
-
-It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
-attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
-fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
-passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
-wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
-flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
-and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
-light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
-all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
-sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
-his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
-broken under the weight of his foot.
-
-“I forgot it,” he said.
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
-wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
-the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
-reminded of that expression.
-
-“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
-to him.
-
-“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
-unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
-have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
-my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”
-
-They were both silent.
-
-“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.
-
-“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”
-
-“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
-trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
-
-“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
-may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”
-
-“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
-you when you leave it empty!”
-
-“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
-is nobody to weep for me.”
-
-“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”
-
-“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”
-
-“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”
-
-“Surely, surely.”
-
-“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
-'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
-respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
-regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
-your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
-not?”
-
-“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”
-
-Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
-few moments, said:
-
-“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
-days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
-
-Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
-
-“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
-closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
-nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
-preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
-that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
-and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
-so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
-
-“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
-you are the better for it?”
-
-“I hope so.”
-
-Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
-his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
-are young.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
-age. Enough of me.”
-
-“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”
-
-“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
-habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
-uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”
-
-“Yes, unhappily.”
-
-“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
-place for me. Take my arm, sir.”
-
-Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
-few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
-there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
-again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
-the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
-“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
-her steps.”
-
-It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
-where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
-closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
-
-“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
-man eyed him inquisitively.
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“How goes the Republic?”
-
-“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
-to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
-exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
-
-“Do you often go to see him--”
-
-“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
-citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
-than two pipes. Word of honour!”
-
-As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
-how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
-to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
-
-“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
-English dress?”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
-
-“You speak like a Frenchman.”
-
-“I am an old student here.”
-
-“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
-him. “And take a pipe with you!”
-
-Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
-the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
-of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
-the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
-for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
-terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
-his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
-thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
-
-Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
-counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
-whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”
-
-Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
-
-“For you, citizen?”
-
-“For me.”
-
-“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
-consequences of mixing them?”
-
-“Perfectly.”
-
-Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
-one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
-and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
-glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”
-
-It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
-aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
-negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
-had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
-his road and saw its end.
-
-Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
-youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
-mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
-read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
-streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
-on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
-he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
-whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
-rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
-and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
-and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
-brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
-might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
-went on.
-
-With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
-going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
-surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
-were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
-of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
-profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
-the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
-along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
-material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
-the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
-interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
-short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
-the lighter streets.
-
-Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
-suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
-shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
-people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
-one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
-for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
-and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
-
-“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
-were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
-and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
-heard them always.
-
-The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
-water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
-picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
-of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
-sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
-and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
-Death's dominion.
-
-But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
-of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
-And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
-appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
-sparkled under it.
-
-The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
-friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
-houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
-bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
-longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
-stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”
-
-A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
-glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
-in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
-for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
-ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
-where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
-little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
-himself, went out to the place of trial.
-
-The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
-away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
-Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
-sitting beside her father.
-
-When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
-sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
-tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
-blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
-there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
-Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
-
-Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
-ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
-been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
-first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
-Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
-
-Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
-republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
-after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
-his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
-gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
-cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
-Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
-
-Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
-No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
-murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
-in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
-another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
-retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
-Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
-one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
-privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
-called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
-
-To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
-
-The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
-
-“Openly, President.”
-
-“By whom?”
-
-“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
-
-A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
-Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
-
-“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
-a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
-daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
-and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
-of my child!”
-
-“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
-the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
-to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
-Republic.”
-
-Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
-with warmth resumed.
-
-“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
-herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
-to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
-
-Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
-his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
-closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
-and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
-
-Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
-being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
-his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
-and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
-This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
-
-“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
-best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
-there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
-it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”
-
-It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
-thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
-Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
- wherein she was likewise much commended.
-
-“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
-citizen.”
-
-“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
-bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
-“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
-known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
-knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
-when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
-when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
-the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
-gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
-stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
-that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
-of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
-I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
-the President.”
-
-“Let it be read.”
-
-In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
-lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
-solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
-reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
-never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
-intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
-follows.
-
-
-
-
-X. The Substance of the Shadow
-
-
-“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
-afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
-cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
-it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
-in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
-place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
-and my sorrows are dust.
-
-“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
-difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
-with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
-has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
-noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
-solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
-mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
-truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
-be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
-
-“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
-twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
-part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
-at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
-School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
-fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
-might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
-voice called to the driver to stop.
-
-“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
-and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
-was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
-door and alight before I came up with it.
-
-“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
-conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
-I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
-younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
-and (as far as I could see) face too.
-
-“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
-physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
-has made a rising reputation in Paris?'
-
-“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
-graciously.'
-
-“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
-so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
-probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
-overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'
-
-“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
-were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
-They were armed. I was not.
-
-“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
-the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
-which I am summoned.'
-
-“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
-your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
-our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
-yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
-enter the carriage?'
-
-“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
-entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
-carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
-
-“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
-it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
-place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
-the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
-paper in its hiding-place.
-
- *****
-
-“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
-emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
-Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
-when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
-stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
-a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
-overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
-answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
-the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
-
-“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
-for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
-other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
-with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
-alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
-
-“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
-locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
-relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
-conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
-ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
-lying on a bed.
-
-“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
-past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
-her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
-all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
-scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
-and the letter E.
-
-“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
-for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
-edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
-in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
-her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
-corner caught my sight.
-
-“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
-and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
-wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
-words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
-twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
-to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
-would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
-would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
-order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
-pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
-
-“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'
-
-“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
-younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
-was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'
-
-“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
-
-“'A brother.'
-
-“'I do not address her brother?'
-
-“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'
-
-“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'
-
-“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'
-
-“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
-useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
-to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
-are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
-
-“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
-a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
-the table.
-
- *****
-
-“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
-lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
-poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
-
-“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.
-
-“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
-more.
-
-“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
-efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
-after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
-sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
-in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
-a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
-furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
-old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
-sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
-succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
-counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
-not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
-them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
-in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
-soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
-figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
-regular.
-
-“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
-the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
-before the elder said:
-
-“'There is another patient.'
-
-“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'
-
-“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
-
- *****
-
-“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
-was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
-to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
-there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
-the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
-pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
-and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
-this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
-captivity, as I saw them all that night.
-
-“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
-handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
-He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
-breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
-where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
-that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
-
-“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'
-
-“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
-
-“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
-The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
-before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
-without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
-brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
-ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
-as if he were a fellow-creature.
-
-“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.
-
-“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
-and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'
-
-“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
-answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
-have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
-have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
-vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
-the boy, or about his fate.
-
-“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
-slowly moved to me.
-
-“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
-proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
-we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'
-
-“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
-distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
-
-“I said, 'I have seen her.'
-
-“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
-Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
-have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
-so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
-tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
-The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
-
-“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
-to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
-
-“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
-are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
-work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
-to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
-for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
-plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
-ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
-people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
-and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
-dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
-most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
-race die out!'
-
-“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
-like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
-somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
-dying boy.
-
-“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
-poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
-him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
-been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
-her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
-us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
-hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
-then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
-willing?'
-
-“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
-looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
-opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
-Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
-trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
-
-“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
-harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
-drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
-grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
-may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
-night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
-not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
-could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
-bell, and died on her bosom.'
-
-“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
-tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
-he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
-wound.
-
-“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
-brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
-brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
-it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
-for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
-tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
-that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
-beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
-_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
-in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
-somewhere here?'
-
-“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
-him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
-over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
-
-“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
-dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
-at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
-make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
-that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
-at me with all his skill for his life.'
-
-“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
-a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
-another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
-
-“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
-
-“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
-referred to the brother.
-
-“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
-man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
-
-“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
-moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
-me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
-
-“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
-his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
-answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
-answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
-I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
-I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
-separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
-it.'
-
-“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
-forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
-finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
-down dead.
-
- *****
-
-“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
-in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
-for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
-grave.
-
-“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
-the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
-quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
-of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
-One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
-twelve. Hush!'
-
-“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
-come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
-falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
-by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
-
-“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
-fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
-compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
-her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
-a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
-had of her.
-
-“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
-elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
-
-“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
-
-“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
-at her with some curiosity.
-
-“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
-despair.'
-
-“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
-chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
-subdued voice,
-
-“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
-recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
-and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
-of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
-and not spoken of.'
-
-“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
-
-“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
-
-“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
-are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
-was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
-
-“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
-pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
-resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
-
- *****
-
-“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
-fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
-darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
-failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
-was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
-
-“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
-syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
-asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
-was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
-head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
-
-“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
-brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
-then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
-woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
-the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
-that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
-if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.
-
-“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
-brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
-peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
-of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
-to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
-brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
-for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
-me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
-in the mind of the elder, too.
-
-“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
-answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
-with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
-all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
-
-“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
-away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
-their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
-
-“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
-
-“'She is dead,' said I.
-
-“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
-
-“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
-gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
-the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
-nothing.
-
-“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
-
-“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
-them, and we parted without another word on either side.
-
- *****
-
-“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
-have written with this gaunt hand.
-
-“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
-little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
-considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
-to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
-summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
-circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
-of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
-heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
-profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
-in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
-I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
-compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
-
-“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
-night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
-It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
-completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
-
- *****
-
-“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
-so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
-dreadful.
-
-“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
-life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
-wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
-boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
-on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
-had seen that nobleman very lately.
-
-“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
-conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
-know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
-in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
-share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
-was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
-in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
-Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
-
-“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
-her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
-but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
-inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
-that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
-wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
-
- *****
-
-“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
-yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
-
-“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
-could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
-was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
-husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
-pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
-
-“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
-all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
-inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
-atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
-I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
-jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
-compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
-the sister can be discovered.'
-
-“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
-sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
-bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
-went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
-
-“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
-I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
-trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
-
-“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
-a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
-my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
-into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
-My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
-the gate, standing silent behind him.
-
-“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
-he had a coach in waiting.
-
-“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
-house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
-my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
-corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
-his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
-of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
-Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
-grave.
-
-“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
-brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
-my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
-dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
-now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
-they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
-last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
-night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
-when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
-and to earth.”
-
-A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
-sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
-blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
-and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
-
-Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
-how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
-Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
-time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
-anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
-The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
-sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
-
-And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
-well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
-of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
-the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
-self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
-said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
-physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
-rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
-a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
-orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
-human sympathy.
-
-“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
-smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”
-
-At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
-roar.
-
-Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
-of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
-Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
-
-
-
-
-XI. Dusk
-
-
-The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
-the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
-sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
-she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
-it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
-
-The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
-the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
-emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
-stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
-but love and consolation.
-
-“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
-you would have so much compassion for us!”
-
-There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
-taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
-show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
-him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
-passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
-leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
-
-“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
-shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
-
-They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
-
-“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
-for me. A parting blessing for our child.”
-
-“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
-you.”
-
-“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
-“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
-by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
-will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”
-
-Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
-of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
-
-“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
-to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
-you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
-know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
-her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
-duty. Heaven be with you!”
-
-Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
-and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
-
-“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
-together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
-discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
-near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
-nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
-bless you!”
-
-As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
-with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
-with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
-smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
-lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
-feet.
-
-Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
-Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
-with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
-Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
-flush of pride in it.
-
-“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”
-
-He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
-coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
-beside the driver.
-
-When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
-many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
-the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
-the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
-her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
-
-“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
-better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
-
-“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
-throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
-you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
-save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
-love her, bear to see her so?”
-
-He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
-put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
-
-“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
-
-It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
-with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
-him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
-handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
-
-When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
-and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
-
-“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
-be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
-you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
-
-“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
-strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
-answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
-
-“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
-and short, but try.”
-
-“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
-
-“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
-now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
-great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
-it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
-were not.”
-
-“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
-straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
-write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
-one will be accessible until dark.”
-
-“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
-forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
-speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
-these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”
-
-“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
-this.”
-
-“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
-go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
-our friend or from yourself?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“May you prosper!”
-
-Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
-shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
-
-“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
-
-“Nor have I.”
-
-“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
-him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
-to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
-court.”
-
-“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
-
-Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
-
-“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
-Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
-consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
-thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
-
-“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
-But he will perish; there is no real hope.”
-
-“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.
-
-And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-XII. Darkness
-
-
-Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
-Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
-do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
-these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
-precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
-Let me think it out!”
-
-Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
-turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
-in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
-confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
-should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
-towards Saint Antoine.
-
-Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
-the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
-well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
-its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
-at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
-first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
-had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
-dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
-done with it.
-
-It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
-into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
-stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
-the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
-his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.
-
-There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
-restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
-the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
-Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
-a regular member of the establishment.
-
-As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
-French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
-glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
-to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
-
-He repeated what he had already said.
-
-“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
-eyebrows.
-
-After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
-slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
-accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”
-
-Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
-took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
-meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”
-
-Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
-
-“How?”
-
-“Good evening.”
-
-“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
-drink to the Republic.”
-
-Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
- Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
-pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
- The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
-are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
-to-morrow!”
-
-Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
-forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
-their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
-of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
-disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
-their conversation.
-
-“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
-is great force in that. Why stop?”
-
-“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
-the question is still where?”
-
-“At extermination,” said madame.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
-approved.
-
-“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
-troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
-suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
-the paper was read.”
-
-“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
-“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
-face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”
-
-“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
-“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
-
-“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
-his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
-have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
-I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
-finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
-his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
-if the axe had dropped.
-
-“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.
-
-“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
-
-“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
-depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
-man even now.”
-
-“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
-would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”
-
-“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
-too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
-tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
-doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.
-
-“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
-this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
-night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
-by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge.
-
-“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
-burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
-those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
-that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge again.
-
-“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
-hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
-among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
-by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
-family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
-was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
-was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
-those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
-descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.
-
-“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
-tell me.”
-
-Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
-of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
-her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
-a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
-only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
-the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”
-
-Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
-paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
-a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
-took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
-The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
-be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
-deep.
-
-But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
-prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
-himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
-walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
-until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
-keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
-banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
-mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
-more than five hours gone: where could he be?
-
-Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
-he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
-should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
-In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
-
-He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
-did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
-brought none. Where could he be?
-
-They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
-weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
-the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
-lost.
-
-Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
-time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
-them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
-
-“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”
-
-His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
-straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
-
-“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
-can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
-finish those shoes.”
-
-They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
-
-“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
-work. Give me my work.”
-
-Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
-ground, like a distracted child.
-
-“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
-cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
-not done to-night?”
-
-Lost, utterly lost!
-
-It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
-that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
-soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
-have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
-embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
-time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
-the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
-
-Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
-of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
-daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
-too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
-one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
-
-“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
-to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
-me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
-exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”
-
-“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”
-
-The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
-rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
-they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
-night.
-
-Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
-feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
-carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
-took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
-at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
-exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”
-
-“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
-
-“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
-his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
-enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
-an Englishman?”
-
-Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
-
-“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
-remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
-Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
-and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
-frontier! You see?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
-yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
-up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
-within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
-good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
-think, will be.”
-
-“They are not in danger?”
-
-“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
-Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
-woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
-colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
-confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
-is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
-Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
-name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
-the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
-involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
-both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
-will save them all.”
-
-“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”
-
-“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
-on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
-until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
-more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
-mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
-father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
-inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
-strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”
-
-“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
-the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
-of this distress.”
-
-“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
-as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
-completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
-horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
-afternoon.”
-
-“It shall be done!”
-
-His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
-flame, and was as quick as youth.
-
-“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
-Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
-and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
-beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
-on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
-the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
-her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
-depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
-father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
-
-“I am sure of it.”
-
-“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
-the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
-The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
-
-“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”
-
-“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
-reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
-then for England!”
-
-“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
-hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
-and ardent man at my side.”
-
-“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
-influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
-another.”
-
-“Nothing, Carton.”
-
-“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
-any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
-inevitably be sacrificed.”
-
-“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”
-
-“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”
-
-Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
-put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
-helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
-as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
-where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
-to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
-courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
-the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
-it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
-there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
-her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
-Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. Fifty-two
-
-
-In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
-their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
-to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
-everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
-were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
-the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
-apart.
-
-Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
-whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
-poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
-in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
-and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
-intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
-without distinction.
-
-Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
-flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
-of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
-fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
-that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
-avail him nothing.
-
-Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
-before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
-was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
-and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
-when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
-this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
-a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
-resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
-child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
-selfish thing.
-
-But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
-was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
-road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
-him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
-enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
-by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
-thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
-
-Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
-travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
-of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
-prison lamps should be extinguished.
-
-He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
-of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
-and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
-responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
-already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
-he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
-her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
-had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
-for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
-become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
-to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
-that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
-preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
-he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
-mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
-discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
-besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
-her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
-of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
-reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
-sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
-blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
-dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
-father.
-
-To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
-father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
-he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
-despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
-tending.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
-That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
-attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
-full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
-
-He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
-he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
-
-But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
-forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
-nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
-heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
-he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
-suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
-was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
-sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
-flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
-
-Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
-were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
-meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
-thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
-
-He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
-high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
-stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
-red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
-or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
-directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
-times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
-fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
-to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
-few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
-the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
-
-The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
-numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
-ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
-contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
-him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
-repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
-He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
-himself and for them.
-
-Twelve gone for ever.
-
-He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
-be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
-and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
-before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
-interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
-
-Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
-different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
-he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
-measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
-recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
-turned to walk again.
-
-Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
-
-The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
-as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
-me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
-no time!”
-
-The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
-face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
-features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
-
-There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
-first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
-imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
-hand, and it was his real grasp.
-
-“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
-
-“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
-are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”
-
-“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
-here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
-wife, dear Darnay.”
-
-The prisoner wrung his hand.
-
-“I bring you a request from her.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
-in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
-remember.”
-
-The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
-
-“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
-no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
-wear, and draw on these of mine.”
-
-There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
-Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
-him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
-
-“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
-them. Quick!”
-
-“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
-will only die with me. It is madness.”
-
-“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
-to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
-that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
-it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
-this of mine!”
-
-With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
-that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
-The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
-
-“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
-can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
-not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
-
-“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
-refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
-steady enough to write?”
-
-“It was when you came in.”
-
-“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”
-
-Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
-Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
-
-“Write exactly as I speak.”
-
-“To whom do I address it?”
-
-“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.
-
-“Do I date it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
-his hand in his breast, looked down.
-
-“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
-between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
-You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”
-
-He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
-up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
-something.
-
-“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.
-
-“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”
-
-“No; I am not armed.”
-
-“What is it in your hand?”
-
-“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
-dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
-them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
-words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
-moved down close to the writer's face.
-
-The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
-him vacantly.
-
-“What vapour is that?” he asked.
-
-“Vapour?”
-
-“Something that crossed me?”
-
-“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
-and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
-
-As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
-prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
-with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
-hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
-
-“Hurry, hurry!”
-
-The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
-
-“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
-softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
-If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
-should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
-otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
-unintelligible signs.
-
-Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
-with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
-nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
-seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
-life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
-the ground.
-
-Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
-dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
-his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
-softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.
-
-“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
-insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
-great?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
-hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
-the whole of your bargain.”
-
-“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”
-
-“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
-made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”
-
-“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
-rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
-take me to the coach.”
-
-“You?” said the Spy nervously.
-
-“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
-you brought me in?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
-take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
-happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
-Quick! Call assistance!”
-
-“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
-last moment.
-
-“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
-solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
-moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
-him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
-yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
-last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
-
-The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
-forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
-
-“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
-afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
-Sainte Guillotine?”
-
-“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
-if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
-
-They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
-brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
-
-“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.
-
-“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
-you, and leave me.”
-
-“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”
-
-The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
-listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
-suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
-footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
-made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
-sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
-
-Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
-began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
-finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
-saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
-at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
-within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
-the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
-standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
-but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
-fixedly at the ground.
-
-As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
-were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
-as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
-discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
-woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
-no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
-the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
-
-“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
-poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”
-
-He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”
-
-“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
-likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
-like me?”
-
-The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
-started from his eyes.
-
-“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
-am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
-to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
-Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
-
-As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
-warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
-
-“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”
-
-“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
-
-“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
-hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
-more courage.”
-
-As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
-them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
-fingers, and touched his lips.
-
-“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
-
-“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
-
-“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
-
-“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
-
- *****
-
-The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
-same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
-it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
-
-“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
-
-The papers are handed out, and read.
-
-“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
-
-This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
-pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
-Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
-
-Greatly too much for him.
-
-“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
-
-This is she.
-
-“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”
-
-It is.
-
-“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
-This is she?”
-
-She and no other.
-
-“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
-something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
-English. Which is he?”
-
-He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”
-
-It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
-he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
-under the displeasure of the Republic.
-
-“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
-displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
-Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”
-
-“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”
-
-It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
-is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
-door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
-carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
-carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
-the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
-mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
-an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
-
-“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”
-
-“One can depart, citizen?”
-
-“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”
-
-“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”
-
-These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
-looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
-is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
-
-“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
- asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
-
-“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
-it would rouse suspicion.”
-
-“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
-
-“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”
-
-Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
-dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
-trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
-either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
-stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
-sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
-wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
-anything but stopping.
-
-Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
-farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
-avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
-by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
-no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
-the posting-house.
-
-Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
-the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
-of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
-existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
-plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
-their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
-All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
-far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
-
-At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
-behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
-on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
-animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
-haunches. We are pursued?
-
-“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”
-
-“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
-
-“How many did they say?”
-
-“I do not understand you.”
-
-“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”
-
-“Fifty-two.”
-
-“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
-forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
-handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”
-
-The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
-to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
-by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
-us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
-
-The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
-the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
-us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Knitting Done
-
-
-In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
-Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
-Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
-erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
-conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
-was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
-
-“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
-Republican? Eh?”
-
-“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
-notes, “in France.”
-
-“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
-a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
-fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
-well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
-his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”
-
-“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
-with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
-citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
-
-“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
-his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
-me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
-child must follow the husband and father.”
-
-“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
-eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
-them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
-
-Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
-
-“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
-of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
-there. It is a pretty sight!”
-
-“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
-“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
-last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
-but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
-and then they might escape.”
-
-“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
-have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”
-
-“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
-pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
-regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
-therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
-submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
-
-“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
-“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
-this very day?”
-
-“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
-two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
-without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”
-
-He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
-imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
-never seen.
-
-“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”
-
-“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
-eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
-
-“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
-fellow-Jurymen.”
-
-“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
-Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
-I spare him?”
-
-“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
-“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”
-
-“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
-cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
-trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
-bad witness.”
-
-The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
-protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
-witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
-celestial witness.
-
-“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
-him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
-to-day executed.--You?”
-
-The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
-the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
-of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
-Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
-smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
-barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
-suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
-him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
-for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
-
-“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
-over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
-will give information against these people at my Section.”
-
-The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
-citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
-her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
-hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
-
-Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
-the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
-
-“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
-be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
-justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
-I will go to her.”
-
-“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
-Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
-embraced her.
-
-“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
-lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
-me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
-greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
-
-“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
-alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”
-
-“I shall be there before the commencement.”
-
-“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
-The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
-street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
-
-Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
-might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
-mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
-Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
-of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
-
-There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
-disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
-than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
-strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
-determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
-to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
-instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
-heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
-with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
-opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
-pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
-her.
-
-It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
-his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
-his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
-insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
-her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
-hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
-been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
-she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
-been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
-softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
-sent her there.
-
-Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
-worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
-dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
-bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
-dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
-a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
-walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
-sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
-
-Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
-waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
-the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
-attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
-but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
-it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
-escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
-Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
-and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
-three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
-Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
-passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
-advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
-of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
-
-Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
-pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
-beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
-passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
-their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
-taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
-else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
-
-“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
-was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
-“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
-carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
-suspicion.”
-
-“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
-wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
-
-“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
-Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
-_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”
-
-“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
-hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
-mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
-two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
-crisis?”
-
-“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
-them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
-
-“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
-an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
-more will I do it, never no more!”
-
-“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
-never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
-necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
-
-“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
-poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
-Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
-
-“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
-striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
-is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
-superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”
-
-“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
-most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
-be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
-opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
-hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
-time.”
-
-“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
-Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
-
-“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
-additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
-out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
-earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
-flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
-risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
-conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
-
-And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
-nearer and nearer.
-
-“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
-upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
-understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
-you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
-earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
-Cruncher, let us think!”
-
-Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
-and nearer.
-
-“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
-horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
-that be best?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
-
-“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
-Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
-Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
-
-“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
-the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
-towers?”
-
-“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
-straight, and make that change.”
-
-“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
-“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”
-
-“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
-Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
-and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
-of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
-that may depend on both of us!”
-
-This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
-clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
-immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
-to follow as she had proposed.
-
-The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
-execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
-her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
-streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
-minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
-
-Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
-rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
-in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
-which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
-could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
-dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
-was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
-out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
-
-The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
-Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
-those feet had come to meet that water.
-
-Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
-where is she?”
-
-It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
-and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
-four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
-the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
-
-Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
-and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
-about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
-of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
-way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
-
-“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
-Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
-me. I am an Englishwoman.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
-Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
-hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
-woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
-Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
-that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
-
-“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
-her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
-knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
-wish to see her.”
-
-“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
-depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”
-
-Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
-both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
-the unintelligible words meant.
-
-“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
-moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
-Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”
-
-“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
-was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
-you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”
-
-Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
-detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
-at naught.
-
-“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
-answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
-to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
- This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
-
-“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
-understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
-except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
-part of it.”
-
-Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
-Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
-first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
-
-“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
-English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
-greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
-dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
-
-Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
-between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
-Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
-
-But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
-irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
-Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
-laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
-Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
-of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
-answer the Citizeness Defarge!”
-
-Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
-expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
-either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
-Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
-
-“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
-are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
-you! Let me look.”
-
-“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
-Madame Defarge understood the answer.
-
-“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
-brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.
-
-“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
-uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
-know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
-that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”
-
-“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
-I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
-Madame Defarge.
-
-“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
-not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
-while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
-my darling,” said Miss Pross.
-
-Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
-moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
-It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
-with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
-clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
-that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
-face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
-clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
-
-Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
-waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
-shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
-you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
-
-Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
-what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
-alone--blinded with smoke.
-
-All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
-stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
-whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
-
-In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
-body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
-fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
-what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
-go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
-get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
-out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
-away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
-and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
-
-By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
-gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
-was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
-like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
-gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
-dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
-hundred ways.
-
-In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
-at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
-she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
-it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
-discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
-charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
-escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
-
-“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
-question and by her aspect.
-
-“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”
-
-It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
-not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
-all events she'll see that.” And she did.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
-presently.
-
-Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
-
-“I don't hear it.”
-
-“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
-much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
-
-“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
-and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”
-
-“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
-more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
-Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”
-
-“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
-my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
-and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
-broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
-
-“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
-journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
-opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
-
-And indeed she never did.
-
-
-
-
-XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
-tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
-insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
-are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
-France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
-a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
-conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
-humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
-twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
-rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
-the same fruit according to its kind.
-
-Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
-they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
-the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
-toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
-house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
-No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
-of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
-into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
-the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
-form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
- Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
-
-As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
-a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
-are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
-So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
-in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
-hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
-the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
-then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
-curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
-tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
-
-Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
-things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
-a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
-drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
-heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
-they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
-and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
-he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
-drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
-number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
-
-There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
-and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
-question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
-always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
-horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
-their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
-at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
-mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
-no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
-girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
-against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
-shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
-touch his face, his arms being bound.
-
-On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
-the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
-He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
-sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
-
-“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
-
-“That. At the back there.”
-
-“With his hand in the girl's?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
-Down, Evremonde!”
-
-“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
-
-“And why not, citizen?”
-
-“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
-Let him be at peace.”
-
-But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
-Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
-Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
-
-The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
-populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
-end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
-close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
-to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
-public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
-fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
-
-“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
-Defarge!”
-
-“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
-
-“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”
-
-“Louder,” the woman recommends.
-
-Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
-thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
-it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
-lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
-deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
-enough to find her!
-
-“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
-here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
-she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
-her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”
-
-As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
-begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
-robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
-scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
-think and speak, count One.
-
-The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
-the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
-
-The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
-after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
-still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
-crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
-his face and thanks him.
-
-“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
-naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
-able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
-have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
-Heaven.”
-
-“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
-and mind no other object.”
-
-“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
-it go, if they are rapid.”
-
-“They will be rapid. Fear not!”
-
-The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
-if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
-heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
-and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
-together, and to rest in her bosom.
-
-“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
-am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”
-
-“Tell me what it is.”
-
-“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
-love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
-farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
-nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
-tell her! It is better as it is.”
-
-“Yes, yes: better as it is.”
-
-“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
-thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
-much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
-and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
-live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
-
-“What then, my gentle sister?”
-
-“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
-endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
-“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
-where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”
-
-“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”
-
-“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
-moment come?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
-The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
-a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
-him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
-
-“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me shall never die.”
-
-The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
-on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
-forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
-Twenty-Three.
-
- *****
-
-They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
-peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
-sublime and prophetic.
-
-One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
-at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
-write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
-utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
-
-“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
-long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
-the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
-out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
-rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
-their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
-of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
-birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
-
-“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
-prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
-Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
-aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
-healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
-friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
-tranquilly to his reward.
-
-“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
-their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
-for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
-course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
-that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
-than I was in the souls of both.
-
-“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
-winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
-winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
-light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
-fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
-with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
-look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
-tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
-
-“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
-far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: A Tale of Two Cities
- A Story of the French Revolution
-
-Author: Charles Dickens
-
-Release Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]
-Posting Date: November 28, 2009
-Last Updated: March 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Judith Boss
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-A TALE OF TWO CITIES
-
-A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
-
-By Charles Dickens
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
- Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
- Chapter I The Period
- Chapter II The Mail
- Chapter III The Night Shadows
- Chapter IV The Preparation
- Chapter V The Wine-shop
- Chapter VI The Shoemaker
-
-
- Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
- Chapter I Five Years Later
- Chapter II A Sight
- Chapter III A Disappointment
- Chapter IV Congratulatory
- Chapter V The Jackal
- Chapter VI Hundreds of People
- Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town
- Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country
- Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head
- Chapter X Two Promises
- Chapter XI A Companion Picture
- Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy
- Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy
- Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman
- Chapter XV Knitting
- Chapter XVI Still Knitting
- Chapter XVII One Night
- Chapter XVIII Nine Days
- Chapter XIX An Opinion
- Chapter XX A Plea
- Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps
- Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises
- Chapter XXIII Fire Rises
- Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
- Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
- Chapter I In Secret
- Chapter II The Grindstone
- Chapter III The Shadow
- Chapter IV Calm in Storm
- Chapter V The Wood-sawyer
- Chapter VI Triumph
- Chapter VII A Knock at the Door
- Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards
- Chapter IX The Game Made
- Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow
- Chapter XI Dusk
- Chapter XII Darkness
- Chapter XIII Fifty-two
- Chapter XIV The Knitting Done
- Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
-
-
-
-I. The Period
-
-
-It was the best of times,
-it was the worst of times,
-it was the age of wisdom,
-it was the age of foolishness,
-it was the epoch of belief,
-it was the epoch of incredulity,
-it was the season of Light,
-it was the season of Darkness,
-it was the spring of hope,
-it was the winter of despair,
-we had everything before us,
-we had nothing before us,
-we were all going direct to Heaven,
-we were all going direct the other way--
-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
-its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
-evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-
-There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
-throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
-a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
-than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
-that things in general were settled for ever.
-
-It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
-as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
-blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
-heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
-made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
-ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
-messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
-deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
-earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
-from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
-to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
-communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
-brood.
-
-France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
-sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
-hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
-Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
-achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
-torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
-kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
-which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
-yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
-Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
-already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
-boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
-it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
-of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
-sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
-rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
-the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
-the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
-unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
-with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
-that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
-
-In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
-justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
-highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
-families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
-their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
-in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
-challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
-“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
-mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
-then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
-failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
-that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
-and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
-illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
-gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
-fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
-thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
-Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
-for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
-musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
-much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
-and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
-up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
-Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
-hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
-Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
-and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
-sixpence.
-
-All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
-upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
-those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
-fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
-with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
-and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
-creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
-roads that lay before them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Mail
-
-
-It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
-before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
-The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
-Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
-as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
-for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
-and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
-horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
-coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
-to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
-combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
-otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
-are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
-their duty.
-
-With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
-the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
-falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
-them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
-near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
-unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
-hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
-nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
-
-There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
-forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
-none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
-air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
-waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
-everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
-and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
-into it, as if they had made it all.
-
-Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
-side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
-ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
-anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
-hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
-the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
-were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
-the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
-when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
-“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
-non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
-of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
-thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
-he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
-and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
-loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
-deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
-
-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
-the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
-all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
-the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
-taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
-journey.
-
-“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
-top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
-it!--Joe!”
-
-“Halloa!” the guard replied.
-
-“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”
-
-“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
-
-“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
-yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
-
-The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
-made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
-suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
-passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
-stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
-had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
-into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
-getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
-
-The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
-stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
-the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
-
-“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
-box.
-
-“What do you say, Tom?”
-
-They both listened.
-
-“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”
-
-“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
-of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
-name, all of you!”
-
-With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
-the offensive.
-
-The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
-the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
-remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
-in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
-and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
-back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
-his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
-
-The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
-of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
-indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
-the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
-passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
-quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
-the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
-
-The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
-
-“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
-I shall fire!”
-
-The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
-a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”
-
-“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Why do you want to know?”
-
-“I want a passenger, if it is.”
-
-“What passenger?”
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”
-
-Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
-the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
-
-“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
-“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
-your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”
-
-“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
-speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”
-
-(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
-himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)
-
-“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“What is the matter?”
-
-“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”
-
-“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
-road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
-passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
-pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
-
-“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
-guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”
-
-“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
-
-“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
-saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
-at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
-now let's look at you.”
-
-The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
-and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
-stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
-a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
-rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
-the man.
-
-“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
-
-The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
-blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
-answered curtly, “Sir.”
-
-“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
-know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
-to drink. I may read this?”
-
-“If so be as you're quick, sir.”
-
-He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
-read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
-It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
-TO LIFE.”
-
-Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
- said he, at his hoarsest.
-
-“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
-well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”
-
-With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
-all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
-their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
-pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
-the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
-
-The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
-it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
-in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
-having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
-looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
-few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
-furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
-and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
-himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
-and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
-five minutes.
-
-“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.
-
-“Hallo, Joe.”
-
-“Did you hear the message?”
-
-“I did, Joe.”
-
-“What did you make of it, Tom?”
-
-“Nothing at all, Joe.”
-
-“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
-myself.”
-
-Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
-only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
-shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
-holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
-heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
-hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
-hill.
-
-“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
-fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
-glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
-message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
-be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
-Jerry!”
-
-
-
-
-III. The Night Shadows
-
-
-A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
-constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
-solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
-one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
-room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
-heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
-its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
-awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
-turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
-to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
-water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
-of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
-book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
-but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
-eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
-in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
-my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
-consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
-individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
-any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
-a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
-innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
-
-As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
-messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
-first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
-three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
-coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
-been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
-breadth of a county between him and the next.
-
-The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
-ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
-own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
-assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
-no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
-were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
-far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
-a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
-throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
-for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
-poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
-muffled again.
-
-“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
-“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
-suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
-been a drinking!”
-
-His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
-times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
-which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
-over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
-so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
-wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
-have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
-
-While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
-watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
-was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
-night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
-shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
-They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
-
-What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
-its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
-likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
-their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
-
-Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
-passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
-lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
-and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
-jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
-coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
-bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
-stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
-and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
-all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
-the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
-stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
-little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
-them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
-safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
-
-But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
-(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
-always with him, there was another current of impression that never
-ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
-out of a grave.
-
-Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
-was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
-not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
-years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
-and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
-defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
-so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
-and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
-prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
-spectre:
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-“You know that you are recalled to life?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”
-
-The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
-the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
- Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
-“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
-was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”
-
-After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
-and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
-hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
-hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
-passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
-reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
-
-Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
-patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
-by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
-of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
-real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
-sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
-of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
-it again.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
-passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
-securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
-slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
-slid away into the bank and the grave.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
-his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
-passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
-shadows of the night were gone.
-
-He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
-ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
-last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
-in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
-upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
-and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
-
-“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
-Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
-
-
-
-
-IV. The Preparation
-
-
-When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
-the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
-custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
-from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
-traveller upon.
-
-By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
-congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
-roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
-and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
-like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
-of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
-muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
-
-“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
-
-“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
-tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
-sir?”
-
-“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”
-
-“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
-Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
-gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
-Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”
-
-The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
-mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
-head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
-Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
-all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
-drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
-loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
-and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
-brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
-square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
-his breakfast.
-
-The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
-in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
-with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
-that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
-
-Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
-loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
-as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
-evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
-of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
-fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
-wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
-head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
-looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
-His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
-was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
-beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
-face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
-quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
-their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
-reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
-cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
-But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
-principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
-second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
-
-Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
-Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
-and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
-
-“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
-time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
-gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
-their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
-vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”
-
-“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
-sir?”
-
-“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
-from France.”
-
-“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
-time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
-Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
-years ago?”
-
-“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
-the truth.”
-
-“Indeed, sir!”
-
-Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
-table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
-dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
-he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
-immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
-
-When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
-the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
-from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
-ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
-wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
-destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
-brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
-a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
-dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
-fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
-night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
-made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
-sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
-that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
-
-As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
-at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
-again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
-too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
-his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
-digging, digging, in the live red coals.
-
-A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
-harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
-Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
-glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
-ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
-got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
-street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
-
-He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.
-
-In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
-had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
-Tellson's.
-
-“So soon?”
-
-Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
-then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
-immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
-
-The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
-glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
-wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
-It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
-horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
-oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
-were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
-graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
-from them until they were dug out.
-
-The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
-way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
-the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
-candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
-the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
-and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
-his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
-hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
-a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
-it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
-not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
-fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
-eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
-of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
-Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
-high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
-the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
-procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
-offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
-feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
-
-“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
-little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
-
-“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
-date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
-
-“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
-some intelligence--or discovery--”
-
-“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
-
-“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
-long dead--”
-
-Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
-hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
-anybody in their absurd baskets!
-
-“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
-with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
-the purpose.”
-
-“Myself.”
-
-“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”
-
-She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
-pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
-was than she. He made her another bow.
-
-“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
-those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
-France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
-me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
-during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
-gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
-beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
-
-“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
-be more happy to execute it.”
-
-“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
-by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
-business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
-nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
-strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
-
-“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”
-
-After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
-ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”
-
-He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
-forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
-and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
-as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
-shadow.
-
-“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
-
-“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
-an argumentative smile.
-
-Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
-which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
-deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
-she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
-moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
-
-“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
-as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”
-
-“If you please, sir.”
-
-“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
-acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
-if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
-your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
-
-“Story!”
-
-He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
-in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
-our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
-gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”
-
-“Not of Beauvais?”
-
-“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
-Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
-time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”
-
-“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”
-
-“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
-I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
-French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
-In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
-scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
-there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
-sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
-business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
-the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
-machine. To go on--”
-
-“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
-curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
-left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
-it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
-to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
-conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
-the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
-his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
-down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
-
-“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
-just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
-with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
-that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
-Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
-Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
-of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
-Mangle.”
-
-After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
-flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
-unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
-before), and resumed his former attitude.
-
-“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
-regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
-when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”
-
-She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
-
-“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
-the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
-him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
-business. As I was saying--”
-
-Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
-
-“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
-and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
-been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
-trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
-privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
-to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
-privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
-to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
-implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
-him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
-been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”
-
-“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
-
-“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”
-
-“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
-moment.”
-
-“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
-his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
-Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
-if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
-had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
-born--”
-
-“The little child was a daughter, sir.”
-
-“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
-poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
-that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
-inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
-rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
-Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
-
-“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
-
-“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
-business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
-mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
-shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
-much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
-
-Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
-very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
-his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
-communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
-
-“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
-you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
-you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
-her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
-to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
-upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
-heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
-
-As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
-flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
-been already tinged with grey.
-
-“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
-they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
-discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
-
-He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
-forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
-now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
-
-“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
-probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
-Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
-in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
-restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
-
-A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
-low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
-
-“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”
-
-Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
-there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
-You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
-sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
-
-She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
-have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
-
-“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
-wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
-another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
-worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
-know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
-held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
-because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
-anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
-events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
-Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
-the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
-to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
-and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
-which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
-word! Miss Manette!”
-
-Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
-sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
-upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
-branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
-feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
-out loudly for assistance without moving.
-
-A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
-be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
-extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
-wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
-or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
-inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
-poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
-flying back against the nearest wall.
-
-(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
-reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
-
-“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
-“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
-at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
-things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
-water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”
-
-There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
-softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
-gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
-golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
-
-“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
-“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
-to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
-you call _that_ being a Banker?”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
-answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
-sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
-servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
-not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
-regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
-upon her shoulder.
-
-“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
-
-“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
-humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”
-
-“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
-intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
-would have cast my lot in an island?”
-
-This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
-consider it.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wine-shop
-
-
-A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
-accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
-out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
-outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
-
-All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
-idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
-stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
-thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
-had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
-jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
-made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
-women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
-run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
-the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
-handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
-mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
-others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
-there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
-directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
-pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
-fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
-wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
-along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
-if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
-presence.
-
-A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
-and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
-was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
-special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
-of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
-luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
-shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
-together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
-most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
-demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
-had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
-motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
-hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
-starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
-with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
-the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
-gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
-
-The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
-in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
-stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
-wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
-on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
-stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
-Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
-tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
-head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
-upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
-
-The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
-street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
-
-And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
-gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
-heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
-waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
-but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
-terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
-fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
-passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
-in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
-had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
-children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
-grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
-was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
-of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
-lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
-paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
-firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
-chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
-among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
-baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
-bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
-was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
-chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
-farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
-drops of oil.
-
-Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
-street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
-diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
-and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
-that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
-wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
-slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
-compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
-into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
-inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
-were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
-painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
-meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
-croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
-gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
-flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
-and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
-gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
-with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
-broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
-the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
-rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
-the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
-pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
-and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
-manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
-the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
-
-For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
-should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
-long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
-up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
-condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
-France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
-song and feather, took no warning.
-
-The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
-appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
-it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
-for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
-of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
-another.”
-
-There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
-he called to him across the way:
-
-“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
-
-The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
-the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
-often the way with his tribe too.
-
-“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
-keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
-mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
-in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
-to write such words in?”
-
-In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
-perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
-own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
-attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
-hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
-practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
-
-“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
-there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
-dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
-his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
-
-This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
-and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
-bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
-His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
-the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
-crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
-eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
-the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
-resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
-down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
-the man.
-
-Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
-came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
-a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
-heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
-manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
-have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
-in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
-sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
-shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
-earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
-her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
-by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
-coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
-of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
-line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
-shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
-he stepped over the way.
-
-The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
-rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
-a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
-dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
-of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
-elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”
-
-“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
-to himself; “I don't know you.”
-
-But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
-with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
-all the spilt wine swallowed?”
-
-“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
-
-When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
-picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
-and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
-Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
-of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
-
-“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
-
-At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
-using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
-cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
-drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
-
-“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
-always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
-right, Jacques?”
-
-“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
-when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
-slightly rustled in her seat.
-
-“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”
-
-The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
-flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
-giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
-wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
-of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
-upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
-wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
-fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
-close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
-my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
-there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
-
-They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
-Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
-gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
-
-“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
-the door.
-
-Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
-word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
-not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
-beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
-knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
-
-Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
-joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
-company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
-and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
-by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
-gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
-to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
-a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
-transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
-in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
-angry, dangerous man.
-
-“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
- Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
-ascending the stairs.
-
-“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
-
-“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
-same low voice.
-
-“Is he always alone, then?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Of his own desire?”
-
-“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
-found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
-discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
-
-“He is greatly changed?”
-
-“Changed!”
-
-The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
-and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
-forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
-two companions ascended higher and higher.
-
-Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
-parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
-indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
-within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
-the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
-staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
-flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
-hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
-the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
-intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
-insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
-and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
-his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
-Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
-at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
-uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
-to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
-caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
-or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
-promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
-
-At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
-third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
-and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
-was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
-advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
-dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
-here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
-his shoulder, took out a key.
-
-“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
-
-“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
-
-“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
-closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
-frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
-harm--if his door was left open.”
-
-“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
-world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
-are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
-that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
-
-This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
-of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
-under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
-and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
-on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
-
-“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
-moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
-all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
-bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
-That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
-
-They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
-soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
-once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
-the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
-the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
-footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
-themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
-wine-shop.
-
-“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
-Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
-
-The three glided by, and went silently down.
-
-There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
-the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
-Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
-
-“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
-
-“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
-
-“Is that well?”
-
-“_I_ think it is well.”
-
-“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
-
-“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
-sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
-thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
-
-With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
-through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
-twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
-make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
-three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
-it as heavily as he could.
-
-The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
-room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
-than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
-
-He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
-got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
-felt that she was sinking.
-
-“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
-business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
-
-“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
-
-“Of it? What?”
-
-“I mean of him. Of my father.”
-
-Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
-their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
-shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
-down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
-
-Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
-took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
-methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
-could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
-where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
-
-The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
-and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
-roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
-the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
-other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
-door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
-Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
-was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
-alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
-requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
-done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
-towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
-him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
-busy, making shoes.
-
-
-
-
-VI. The Shoemaker
-
-
-“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
-bent low over the shoemaking.
-
-It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
-salutation, as if it were at a distance:
-
-“Good day!”
-
-“You are still hard at work, I see?”
-
-After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
-voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
-had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
-
-The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
-faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
-doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
-the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
-of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
-resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
-beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
-suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
-it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
-wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
-home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
-
-Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
-up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
-perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
-aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
-
-“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
-“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”
-
-The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
-at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
-other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“You can bear a little more light?”
-
-“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
-stress upon the second word.)
-
-The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
-angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
-showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
-labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
-feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
-long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
-thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
-dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
-otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
-His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
-to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
-stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
-from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
-parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
-
-He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
-of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
-pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
-first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
-lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
-first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
-
-“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
-motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
-
-“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”
-
-But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
-
-Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
-he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
-looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
-unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
-it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
-the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
-look and the action had occupied but an instant.
-
-“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Here is a visitor.”
-
-The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
-work.
-
-“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
-he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
-
-“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
-
-There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
-
-“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”
-
-“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
-information?”
-
-“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
-present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
-glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
-
-“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.
-
-Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
-in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
-hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
-so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
-recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
-had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
-endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
-fast-dying man.
-
-“Did you ask me for my name?”
-
-“Assuredly I did.”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
-again, until the silence was again broken.
-
-“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
-at him.
-
-His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
-question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
-on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
-
-“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
-learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”
-
-He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
-hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
-from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
-resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
-subject of last night.
-
-“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
-a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”
-
-As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
-Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
-
-“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
-
-The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
-questioner.
-
-“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
-remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
-banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
-mind, Monsieur Manette?”
-
-As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
-Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
-intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
-through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
-again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
-so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
-had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
-she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
-raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
-shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
-trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
-breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
-repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
-looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
-
-Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
-less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
-and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
-took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
-
-“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.
-
-“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
-unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
-well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”
-
-She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
-which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
-figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
-over his labour.
-
-Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
-beside him, and he bent over his work.
-
-It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
-in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
-which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
-stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
-raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
-but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
-striking at her with the knife, though they had.
-
-He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
-to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
-the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
-
-“What is this?”
-
-With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
-lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
-laid his ruined head there.
-
-“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”
-
-She sighed “No.”
-
-“Who are you?”
-
-Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
-beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
-thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
-laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
-
-Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
-aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
-little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
-he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
-shoemaking.
-
-But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
-shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
-be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
-to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
-attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
-a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
-hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
-
-He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
-the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”
-
-As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
-become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
-light, and looked at her.
-
-“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
-out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
-brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
-leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
-may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
-well.”
-
-He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
-But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
-though slowly.
-
-“How was this?--_Was it you_?”
-
-Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
-frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
-said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
-us, do not speak, do not move!”
-
-“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”
-
-His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
-hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
-shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
-tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
-gloomily shook his head.
-
-“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
-prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
-she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
-was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
-name, my gentle angel?”
-
-Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
-before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
-
-“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
-and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
-cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
-tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
-me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”
-
-His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
-lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
-
-“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
-is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
-sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
-touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
-breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
-I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
-with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
-remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
-weep for it, weep for it!”
-
-She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
-child.
-
-“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
-have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
-peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
-and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
-if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
-and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
-honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
-striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
-my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
-for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
-tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
-God for us, thank God!”
-
-He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
-touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
-had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
-
-When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
-breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
-storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
-called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
-daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
-there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
-head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
-him from the light.
-
-“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
-he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
-arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
-could be taken away--”
-
-“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
-him.”
-
-“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
-than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
-Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”
-
-“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
-methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”
-
-“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
-composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
-now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
-interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
-as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
-you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
-
-Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
-in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
-and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
-for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
-dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
-to do it.
-
-Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
-hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
-deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
-through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
-had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
-meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
-lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
-garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
-assisted him to his feet.
-
-No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
-the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
-whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
-he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
-tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
-answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
-the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
-occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
-in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
-daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
-
-In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
-ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
-and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
-his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
-in both his own.
-
-They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
-Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
-of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
-round at the walls.
-
-“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
-she had repeated it.
-
-“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”
-
-That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
-prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
-evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
-him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
-tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
-no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
-dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
-
-No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
-many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
-silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
-that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
-saw nothing.
-
-The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
-him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
-miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
-Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
-went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
-brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
-against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
-
-Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
-postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
-over-swinging lamps.
-
-Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
-streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
-illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
-gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
-travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
-getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
-monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
-him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
-military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
-in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
-or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
-Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
-grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
-grove of stars.
-
-Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
-this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
-rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
-is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
-All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
-whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
-man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
-lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:
-
-“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”
-
-And the old answer:
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-
-The end of the first book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
-
-
-
-I. Five Years Later
-
-
-Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
-year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
-dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
-moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
-proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
-proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
-in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
-it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
-no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
-convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
-no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
-embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
-Tellson's, thank Heaven--!
-
-Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
-question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
-on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
-suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
-objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
-
-Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
-of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
-a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
-and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
-counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
-wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
-windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
-and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
-heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
-“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
-where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
-hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
-twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
-drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
-they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
-were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
-the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
-polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
-made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
-parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
-papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
-dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
-one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
-by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
-from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
-exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
-Abyssinia or Ashantee.
-
-But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
-with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
-Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
-Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
-was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
-purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
-of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
-Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
-three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
-Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
-might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
-reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
-particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
-after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
-its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
-low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
-disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
-ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
-
-Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
-oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
-man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
-old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
-Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
-be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
-and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
-
-Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
-odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
-sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
-upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
-of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
-in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
-tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
-this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
-occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
-easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
-appellation of Jerry.
-
-The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
-Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
-morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
-always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
-the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
-popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
-
-Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
-but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
-might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
-it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
-already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
-for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
-was spread.
-
-Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
-at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
-and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
-looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
-exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
-
-“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
-
-A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
-corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
-person referred to.
-
-“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
-agin, are you?”
-
-After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
-the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
-odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
-whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
-often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
-
-“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
-mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”
-
-“I was only saying my prayers.”
-
-“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
-yourself down and praying agin me?”
-
-“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”
-
-“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
-your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
-father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
-You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
-herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
-of the mouth of her only child.”
-
-Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
-to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
-board.
-
-“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
-unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
-Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”
-
-“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
-that.”
-
-“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
-much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
-afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
-you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
-child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
-wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
-have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
-countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
-B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
-on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
-another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
-devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
-boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
-then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
-tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
-in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
-laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
-it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
-I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
-been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
-it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
-say now!”
-
-Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
-You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
-and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
-from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
-himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
-In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
-and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
-kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
-woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
-his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
---Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
-again with an undutiful grin.
-
-Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
-breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
-animosity.
-
-“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”
-
-His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
-
-“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
-to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
-ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
-blest off my table. Keep still!”
-
-Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
-which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
-his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
-inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
-aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
-he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
-of the day.
-
-It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
-description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
-a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
-young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
-beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
-with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
-from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
-feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
-Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
-itself,--and was almost as in-looking.
-
-Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
-three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
-Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
-standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
-inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
-boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
-extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
-in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
-eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
-The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
-the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
-youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
-in Fleet-street.
-
-The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
-establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
-
-“Porter wanted!”
-
-“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”
-
-Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
-the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
-had been chewing, and cogitated.
-
-“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
-“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
-rust here!”
-
-
-
-
-II. A Sight
-
-
-“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
-clerks to Jerry the messenger.
-
-“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
-know the Bailey.”
-
-“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
-better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
-in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”
-
-“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
-door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”
-
-“Into the court, sir?”
-
-“Into the court.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
-interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”
-
-“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
-conference.
-
-“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
-Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
-attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
-to remain there until he wants you.”
-
-“Is that all, sir?”
-
-“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
-you are there.”
-
-As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
-Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
-blotting-paper stage, remarked:
-
-“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”
-
-“Treason!”
-
-“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”
-
-“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
-spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”
-
-“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
-him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
-
-“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
-care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
-care of itself. I give you that advice.”
-
-“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
-leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
-
-“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
-gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
-ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”
-
-Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
-deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
-too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
-and went his way.
-
-They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
-not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
-But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
-villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
-into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
-dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
-had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
-his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
-For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
-from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
-a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
-half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
-So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
-was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
-a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
-the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
-softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
-blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
-leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
-under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
-illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
-that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
-consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
-
-Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
-hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
-way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
-his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
-at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
-former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
-doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
-criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
-
-After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
-very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
-court.
-
-“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
-to.
-
-“Nothing yet.”
-
-“What's coming on?”
-
-“The Treason case.”
-
-“The quartering one, eh?”
-
-“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
-be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
-face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
-and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
-That's the sentence.”
-
-“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.
-
-“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
-that.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
-saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
-sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
-gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
-before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
-in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
-then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
-court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
-with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
-to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
-
-“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
-
-“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.
-
-“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
-
-“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.
-
-The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
-central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
-went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
-
-Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
-ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
-at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
-pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
-stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
-laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
-themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
-upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
-Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
-of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
-whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
-the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
-that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
-in an impure mist and rain.
-
-The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
-five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
-a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
-dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
-dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
-of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
-itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
-situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
-soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
-bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
-
-The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
-was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
-horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
-details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
-fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
-was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
-and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
-spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
-powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
-
-Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
-an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
-he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
-forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
-occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
-King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
-so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
-our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
-said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
-evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
-said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
-to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
-becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
-huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
-the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
-there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
-that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
-
-The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
-beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
-the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
-attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
-and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
-composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
-it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
-vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
-
-Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
-upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
-it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
-in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
-glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
-day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
-for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
-that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
-of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
-face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
-
-It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
-which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
-in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
-immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
-aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
-
-The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
-twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
-remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
-and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
-but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
-looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
-it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
-handsome man, not past the prime of life.
-
-His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
-him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
-dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
-been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
-that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
-noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
-had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
-“Who are they?”
-
-Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
-manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
-absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
-him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
-from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
-to Jerry:
-
-“Witnesses.”
-
-“For which side?”
-
-“Against.”
-
-“Against what side?”
-
-“The prisoner's.”
-
-The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
-leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
-in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
-axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
-
-
-
-
-III. A Disappointment
-
-
-Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
-them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
-claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
-public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
-even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
-prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
-repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
-he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
-traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
-wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
-That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
-was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
-prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
-Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
-That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
-attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
-friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
-infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
-in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
-were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
-benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
-they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
-as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
-knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
-whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
-they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
-especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
-That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
-for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
-communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
-a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
-and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
-hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
-in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
-brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
-Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
-on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
-witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
-produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
-his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
-sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
-such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
-proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
-same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
-showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
-would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
-in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
-very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
-That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
-were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
-positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
-they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
-pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
-their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
-of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
-there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
-pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
-Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
-everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
-of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
-good as dead and gone.
-
-When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
-a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
-anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
-unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
-
-Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
-patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
-exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
-it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
-of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
-wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
-Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
-opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
-
-Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
-What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
-precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
-Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
-distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
-prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
-prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
-times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
-been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
-Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
-downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
-dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
-committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
-Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
-more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
-Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
-very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
-No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
-about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
-Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
-pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
-no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
-patriotism? None whatever.
-
-The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
-great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
-simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
-packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
-He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
-charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
-the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
-his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
-prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
-the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
-had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
-at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
-Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
-information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
-he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
-only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
-that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
-coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
-curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
-was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
-
-The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry.
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
-seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
-Dover by the mail?”
-
-“It did.”
-
-“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
-
-“Two.”
-
-“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
-
-“They did.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”
-
-“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
-
-“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
-
-“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
-reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
-those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
-render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”
-
-“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
-myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
-air.”
-
-“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“I certainly have seen that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
-certain knowledge, before?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
-prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
-voyage with me.”
-
-“At what hour did he come on board?”
-
-“At a little after midnight.”
-
-“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
-at that untimely hour?”
-
-“He happened to be the only one.”
-
-“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
-came on board in the dead of the night?”
-
-“He was.”
-
-“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
-
-“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
-
-“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
-
-“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
-I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
-
-“Miss Manette!”
-
-The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
-turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
-kept her hand drawn through his arm.
-
-“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
-
-To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
-far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
-Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
-the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
-to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
-before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
-to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
-rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
-
-“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Where?”
-
-“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
-occasion.”
-
-“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
-
-“O! most unhappily, I am!”
-
-The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
-of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
-to you, and make no remark upon them.”
-
-“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
-passage across the Channel?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Recall it.”
-
-In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
-gentleman came on board--”
-
-“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
-
-“Yes, my Lord.”
-
-“Then say the prisoner.”
-
-“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
-her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
-and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
-afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
-deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
-care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
-The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
-shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
-had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
-set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
-great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
-felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
-
-“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“How many were with him?”
-
-“Two French gentlemen.”
-
-“Had they conferred together?”
-
-“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
-necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”
-
-“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”
-
-“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
-papers.”
-
-“Like these in shape and size?”
-
-“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
-near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
-light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
-spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
-they looked at papers.”
-
-“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”
-
-“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
-of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
-father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
-harm to-day.”
-
-Buzzing from the blue-flies.
-
-“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
-you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
-give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
-he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”
-
-“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
-difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
-therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
-had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
-take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
-time to come.”
-
-“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”
-
-“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
-that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
-England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
-Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
-Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
-laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
-
-Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
-a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
-unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
-anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
-she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
-the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
-expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
-of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
-when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
-heresy about George Washington.
-
-Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
-necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
-father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
-
-“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
-
-“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
-three years and a half ago.”
-
-“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
-speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
-
-“Sir, I can do neither.”
-
-“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
-either?”
-
-He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
-
-“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
-trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”
-
-He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”
-
-“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
-
-“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
-time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
-time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
-here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
-my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
-familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
-
-Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
-together.
-
-A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
-to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
-in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
-got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
-not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
-to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
-was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
-in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
-waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
-this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
-on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
-been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
-little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
-this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
-attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
-
-“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
-
-The witness was quite sure.
-
-“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
-
-Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
-
-“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
-to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
-prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”
-
-Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
-if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
-not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
-into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
-his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
-much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
-counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
-friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
-would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
-happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
-this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
-confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
-this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
-useless lumber.
-
-Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
-fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
-Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
-of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
-traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
-scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
-rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
-and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
-swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
-affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
-those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
-consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
-even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
-and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
-had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
-gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
-and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
-reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
-impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
-How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
-attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
-and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
-how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
-character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
-State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
-(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
-not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
-
-Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
-attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
-Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
-Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
-prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
-the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
-decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
-
-And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
-
-Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
-changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
-While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
-whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
-anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
-grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
-and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
-in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
-sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
-on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
-hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
-day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
-a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
-undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
-when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
-lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
-hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
-observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
-that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
-to get any, do he?”
-
-Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
-appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
-her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
-“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
-Don't you see she will fall!”
-
-There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
-sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
-him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
-strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
-brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
-ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
-moment, spoke, through their foreman.
-
-They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
-Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
-but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
-and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
-the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
-jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
-refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
-down.
-
-Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
-now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
-could easily get near him.
-
-“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
-way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
-behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
-are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
-before I can.”
-
-Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
-acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
-at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
-
-“How is the young lady?”
-
-“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
-feels the better for being out of court.”
-
-“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
-like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
-in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
-The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
-eyes, ears, and spikes.
-
-“Mr. Darnay!”
-
-The prisoner came forward directly.
-
-“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
-will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”
-
-“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
-for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
-
-“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
-
-Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
-half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
-
-“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
-
-“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
-Mr. Darnay?”
-
-“The worst.”
-
-“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
-withdrawing is in your favour.”
-
-Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
-more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
-in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
-them.
-
-An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
-passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
-The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
-refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
-of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
-with them.
-
-“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
-there.
-
-“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
-
-Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
-it?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
-
-“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
-Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”
-
-He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
-until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
-with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
-swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
-search of other carrion.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Congratulatory
-
-
-From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
-human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
-Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
-for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
-Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
-death.
-
-It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
-in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
-shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
-twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
-had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
-to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
-reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
-lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
-from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
-itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
-unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
-Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
-hundred miles away.
-
-Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
-his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
-misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
-the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
-influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
-recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
-and slight, and she believed them over.
-
-Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
-to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
-more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
-loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
-way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
-conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
-
-He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
-late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
-out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
-Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
-less likely to succeed on that account.”
-
-“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
- said his late client, taking his hand.
-
-“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
-another man's, I believe.”
-
-It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
-said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
-object of squeezing himself back again.
-
-“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
-and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
-
-“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
-now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
-him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
-this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
-Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”
-
-“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
-do yet. Speak for yourself.”
-
-“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
-Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
- He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
-
-His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
-Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
-not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
-thoughts had wandered away.
-
-“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
-
-He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
-
-“Shall we go home, my father?”
-
-With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”
-
-The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
-impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
-released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
-passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
-and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
-gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
-Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
-the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
-departed in it.
-
-Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
-to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
-interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
-against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
-out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
-stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
-
-“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”
-
-Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
-proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
-better for it in appearance.
-
-“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
-business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
-appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
-sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
-have to think of the House more than ourselves.”
-
-“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
-nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
-I dare say.”
-
-“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
-know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
-much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
-business.”
-
-“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“It is a pity you have not, sir.”
-
-“I think so, too.”
-
-“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”
-
-“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
-“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
-if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
-Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
-for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
-I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
-life.--Chair there!”
-
-Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
-Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
-who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
-then, and turned to Darnay:
-
-“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
-be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
-these street stones?”
-
-“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
-again.”
-
-“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
-advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”
-
-“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”
-
-“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
-numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
-some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”
-
-Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
-Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
-shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
-his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
-opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
-before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
-
-“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
-Darnay?”
-
-“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
-mended as to feel that.”
-
-“It must be an immense satisfaction!”
-
-He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
-one.
-
-“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
-It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
-are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
-not much alike in any particular, you and I.”
-
-Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
-this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
-at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
-
-“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
-health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”
-
-“What health? What toast?”
-
-“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
-swear it's there.”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
-flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
-pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
- he said, filling his new goblet.
-
-A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
-feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
-sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”
-
-Again Darnay answered not a word.
-
-“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
-that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”
-
-The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
-disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
-strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
-for it.
-
-“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
-“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
-it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”
-
-“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”
-
-“Do you think I particularly like you?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
-not asked myself the question.”
-
-“But ask yourself the question now.”
-
-“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”
-
-“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
-opinion of your understanding.”
-
-“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
-nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
-parting without ill-blood on either side.”
-
-Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
-reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
-bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
-ten.”
-
-The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
-Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
-of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
-I am drunk?”
-
-“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
-
-“Since I must say so, I know it.”
-
-“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
-care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
-
-“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
-
-“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
-however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”
-
-When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
-glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
-
-“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
-should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
-in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
-made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
-what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
-places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
-he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
-have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
-
-He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
-minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
-table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Jackal
-
-
-Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
-the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
-statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
-in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
-perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
-The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
-learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
-Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
-practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
-drier parts of the legal race.
-
-A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
-begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
-he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
-specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
-visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
-florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
-the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
-among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
-
-It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
-man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
-faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
-among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
-But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
-business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
-pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
-Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
-
-Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
-ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
-might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
-anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
-at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
-they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
-rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
-to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
-among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
-would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
-rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
-wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“_What's_ the matter?”
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”
-
-“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
-
-“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
-
-After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
-dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
-he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
-and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
-Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
-
-The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
-home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
-and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
-had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
-may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
-Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
-Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
-
-“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.
-
-“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”
-
-They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
-where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
-the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
-it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
-
-“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”
-
-“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
-seeing him dine--it's all one!”
-
-“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
-identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”
-
-“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
-been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”
-
-Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
-
-“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”
-
-Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
-room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
-or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
-out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
-at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”
-
-“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
-gaily, as he looked among his papers.
-
-“How much?”
-
-“Only two sets of them.”
-
-“Give me the worst first.”
-
-“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
-
-The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
-drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
-proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
-his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
-a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
-his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
-lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
-so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
-stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
-more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
-matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
-him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
-jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
-no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
-gravity.
-
-At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
-proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
-made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
-assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
-hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
-invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
-to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
-this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
-disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
-
-“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
-Stryver.
-
-The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
-again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
-
-“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
-to-day. Every question told.”
-
-“I always am sound; am I not?”
-
-“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
-it and smooth it again.”
-
-With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
-
-“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
-his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
-old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
-now in despondency!”
-
-“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
-luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
-
-He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
-him, looking at the fire.
-
-“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
-as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
-was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
-Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
-is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
-at me.”
-
-“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
-good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”
-
-“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
-do?”
-
-“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
-your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
-do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”
-
-“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”
-
-“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
-Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
-
-“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
- pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
-mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
-picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
-didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
-nowhere.”
-
-“And whose fault was that?”
-
-“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
-driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
-that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
-thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
-Turn me in some other direction before I go.”
-
-“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
-his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”
-
-Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
-
-“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
-enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”
-
-“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”
-
-“_She_ pretty?”
-
-“Is she not?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”
-
-“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
-of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”
-
-“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
-and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
-thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
-and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”
-
-“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
-yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
-I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
-I'll get to bed.”
-
-When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
-him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
-windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
-dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
-lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
-before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
-the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
-
-Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
-on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
-wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
-perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
-from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
-fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
-A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
-houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
-pillow was wet with wasted tears.
-
-Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
-good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
-incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
-on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
-
-
-
-
-VI. Hundreds of People
-
-
-The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
-far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
-waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
-it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
-on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
-business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
-quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
-
-On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
-the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
-Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
-secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
-them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
-generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
-his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
-Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
-them.
-
-A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
-found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
-the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
-had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
-north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
-grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
-consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
-instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
-settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
-the peaches ripened in their season.
-
-The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
-of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
-though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
-glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
-place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
-
-There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
-there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
-several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
-audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
-a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
-rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
-to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
-who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
-he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
-visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
-to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
-a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
-workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
-about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
-thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
-required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
-the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
-from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
-
-Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
-its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
-His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
-ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
-he earned as much as he wanted.
-
-These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
-notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
-on the fine Sunday afternoon.
-
-“Doctor Manette at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Lucie at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Pross at home?”
-
-Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
-anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
-fact.
-
-“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”
-
-Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
-birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
-make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
-agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
-by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
-that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
-rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
-the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
-delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
-themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
-stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
-with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
-time, whether he approved?
-
-There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
-communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
-all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
-he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
-the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
-and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
-the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
-changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
-Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
-bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
-dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
-
-“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
-that reminder of his sufferings about him!”
-
-“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
-
-It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
-acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
-had since improved.
-
-“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.
-
-“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
-
-“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
-express that she bore him no malice.
-
-“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
-are you?”
-
-“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
-Ladybird.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
-fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
-stature) was shortness.
-
-“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
-
-“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
-very much put out.”
-
-“May I ask the cause?”
-
-“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
-come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”
-
-“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.
-
-It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
-time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
-she exaggerated it.
-
-“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
-
-“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
-paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
-your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
-for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
- said Miss Pross.
-
-Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
-using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
-fit anything.
-
-“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
-are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”
-
-“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”
-
-“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”
-
-“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
-enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
-that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
-him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
-circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
-and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
-him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”
-
-Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
-this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
-unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
-admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
-it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
-never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
-their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
-is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
-rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
-respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
-mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
-Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
-better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
-
-“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
-Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
-mistake in life.”
-
-Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
-established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
-who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
-speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
-no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
-(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
-matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
-
-“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
-business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
-sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
-in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”
-
-“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
-refer to it within himself.”
-
-“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”
-
-“I do,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
-short with:
-
-“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”
-
-“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
-sometimes?”
-
-“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
-bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
-theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
-the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
-oppressor?”
-
-“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”
-
-“And that is--?”
-
-“That she thinks he has.”
-
-“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
-mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”
-
-“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
-
-Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
-no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
-Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
-he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
-though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
-intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
-attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
-Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
-zealous interest.”
-
-“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
-me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
-of the whole subject.”
-
-“Afraid?”
-
-“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
-remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
-knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
-feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
-subject pleasant, I should think.”
-
-It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
-he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
-Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
-always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
-it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”
-
-“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
-string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
-In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
-the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
-up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
-know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
-his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
-and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
-a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
-best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
-together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
-brought him to himself.”
-
-Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
-perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
-in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
-her possessing such a thing.
-
-The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
-had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
-seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
-set it going.
-
-“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
-“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”
-
-It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
-peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
-looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
-they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
-the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
-heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
-at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
-was ready at the street door to receive them.
-
-Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
-off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
-with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
-folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
-as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
-had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
-sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
-her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
-playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
-chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
-them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
-eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
-have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
-beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
-stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
-Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
-for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
-
-Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
-the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
-always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
-quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
-contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
-better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
-kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
-impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
-impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
-of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
-who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
-or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
-a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
-pleased.
-
-On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
-persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
-regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
-which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
-Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
-to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
-
-It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
-wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
-there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
-they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
-the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
-time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
-plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
-and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
-whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
-
-Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
-presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
-was only One.
-
-Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
-suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
-retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
-disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
-jerks.”
-
-The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
-resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
-they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
-his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
-likeness.
-
-He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
-vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
-plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
-which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
-the Tower?”
-
-“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
-it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”
-
-“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
-though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
-character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
-curious thing when I was there.”
-
-“What was that?” Lucie asked.
-
-“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
-had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
-its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
-prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
-in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
-execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
-some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
-At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
-examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
-legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
-were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
-that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
-floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
-earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
-the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
-or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
-had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”
-
-“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”
-
-He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
-his look quite terrified them all.
-
-“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
-made me start. We had better go in.”
-
-He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
-drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
-said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
-of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
-either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
-towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
-when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
-
-He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
-his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
-steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
-was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
-that the rain had startled him.
-
-Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
-her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
-made only Two.
-
-The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
-windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
-done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
-heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
-leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
-the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
-ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
-
-“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
-Manette. “It comes slowly.”
-
-“It comes surely,” said Carton.
-
-They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
-dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
-
-There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
-get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
-resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
-footstep was there.
-
-“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
-listened for a while.
-
-“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
-sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
-a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
-solemn--”
-
-“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”
-
-“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
-originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
-sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
-the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
-by-and-bye into our lives.”
-
-“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
- Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
-
-The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
-rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
-as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
-coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
-the distant streets, and not one within sight.
-
-“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
-are we to divide them among us?”
-
-“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
-asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
-then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
-into my life, and my father's.”
-
-“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
-stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
-and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
-had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
-
-“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
-come, fast, fierce, and furious!”
-
-It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
-for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
-lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
-interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
-midnight.
-
-The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
-Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
-forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
-of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
-of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
-usually performed a good two hours earlier.
-
-“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
-bring the dead out of their graves.”
-
-“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
-would do that,” answered Jerry.
-
-“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
-Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”
-
-Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
-bearing down upon them, too.
-
-
-
-
-VII. Monseigneur in Town
-
-
-Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
-fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
-his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
-the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
-was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
-things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
-rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
-much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
-strong men besides the Cook.
-
-Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
-Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
-pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
-conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
-the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
-the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
-a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
-watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
-dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
-place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
-his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
-men; he must have died of two.
-
-Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
-and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
-a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
-impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
-more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
-state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
-for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
-favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
-days of the merry Stuart who sold it.
-
-Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
-was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
-business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
-his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
-particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
-was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
-by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
-thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”
-
-Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
-his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
-affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
-public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
-must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
-private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
-generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
-Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
-time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
-wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
-poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
-a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
-rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
-mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
-down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
-
-A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
-stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
-waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
-forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
-relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
-among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
-
-For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
-every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
-achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
-reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
-so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
-equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
-have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
-been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
-destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
-civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
-worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
-all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
-pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
-Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
-anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
-score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
-yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
-passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
-no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
-for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
-patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
-discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
-State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
-root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
-they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
-Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
-card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
-Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
-wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
-the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
-since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
-subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
-exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
-notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
-among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
-of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
-the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
-appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
-bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
-towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
-known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
-and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
-supped as at twenty.
-
-The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
-upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
-people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
-things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
-them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
-sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
-whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
-spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
-Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
-three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
-jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
-Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
-out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
-the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
-by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
-discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
-became manifest.
-
-But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
-Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
-ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
-correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
-delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
-swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
-surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
-of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
-languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
-and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
-fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
-his devouring hunger far away.
-
-Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
-things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
-was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
-Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
-of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
-descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
-required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
-and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
-rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
-Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
-him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
-Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
-of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
-hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
-see the very stars out!
-
-Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
-chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
-open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
-fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
-body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
-been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
-troubled it.
-
-Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
-happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
-passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
-Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
-course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
-sprites, and was seen no more.
-
-The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
-and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
-but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
-and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
-way out.
-
-“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
-and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”
-
-With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
-dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
-
-He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
-with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
-feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
-beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
-of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
-change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
-colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
-by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
-treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
-attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
-line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
-too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
-handsome face, and a remarkable one.
-
-Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
-drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
-stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
-in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
-to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
-often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
-charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
-check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
-sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
-that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
-custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
-barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
-time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
-left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
-
-With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
-consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
-dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
-before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
-its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
-wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
-number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
-
-But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
-stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
-behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
-and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
-
-“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
-
-A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
-the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
-down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
-
-“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
-a child.”
-
-“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”
-
-“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”
-
-The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
-into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
-got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
-Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
-
-“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
-their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”
-
-The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
-nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
-and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
-people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
-remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
-and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
-over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
-
-He took out his purse.
-
-“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
-of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
-the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
-him that.”
-
-He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
-craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
-tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”
-
-He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
-made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
-sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
-stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
-were as silent, however, as the men.
-
-“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
-Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
-live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
-as happily?”
-
-“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
-they call you?”
-
-“They call me Defarge.”
-
-“Of what trade?”
-
-“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”
-
-“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
-throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
-there; are they right?”
-
-Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
-Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
-air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
-paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
-disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
-
-“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”
-
-He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
-moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
-the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
-figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
-
-“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
-except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
-willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
-threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
-should be crushed under the wheels.”
-
-So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
-what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
-a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
-But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
-Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
-contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
-leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”
-
-He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
-succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
-Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
-whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
-had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
-on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
-spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
-which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
-bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
-while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
-of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
-had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
-of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
-into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
-time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
-in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
-things ran their course.
-
-
-
-
-VIII. Monseigneur in the Country
-
-
-A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
-Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
-and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
-inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
-tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
-disposition to give up, and wither away.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
-lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
-a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
-no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
-occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
-sun.
-
-The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
-gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
-die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”
-
-In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
-heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
-hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
-quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
-left when the drag was taken off.
-
-But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
-at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
-church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
-fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
-as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
-coming near home.
-
-The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
-tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
-fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
-its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
-shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
-fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
-the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
-were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
-for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
-paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
-the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.
-
-Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
-their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
-terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
-or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
-
-Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
-whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
-if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
-his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
-fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
-He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
-sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
-meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
-truth through the best part of a hundred years.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
-drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
-Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
-drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
-of the roads joined the group.
-
-“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.
-
-The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
-to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
-
-“I passed you on the road?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”
-
-“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true.”
-
-“What did you look at, so fixedly?”
-
-“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”
-
-He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
-carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
-
-“What man, pig? And why look there?”
-
-“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”
-
-“Who?” demanded the traveller.
-
-“Monseigneur, the man.”
-
-“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
-know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”
-
-“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
-all the days of my life, I never saw him.”
-
-“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”
-
-“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
-His head hanging over--like this!”
-
-He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
-face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
-himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
-
-“What was he like?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
-white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”
-
-The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
-eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
-the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
-conscience.
-
-“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
-vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
-and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
-Gabelle!”
-
-Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
-united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
-examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
-official manner.
-
-“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.
-
-“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
-to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”
-
-“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”
-
-“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”
-
-The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
-particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
-half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
-presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
-
-“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
-a person plunges into the river.”
-
-“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”
-
-The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
-wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
-to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
-they might not have been so fortunate.
-
-The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
-rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
-it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
-sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
-gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
-points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
-courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
-
-At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
-with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
-figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
-studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
-dreadfully spare and thin.
-
-To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
-growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
-turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
-presented herself at the carriage-door.
-
-“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”
-
-With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
-Monseigneur looked out.
-
-“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”
-
-“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”
-
-“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
-cannot pay something?”
-
-“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”
-
-“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”
-
-“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
-grass.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”
-
-“Again, well?”
-
-She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
-grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
-with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
-caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
-feel the appealing touch.
-
-“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
-want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”
-
-“Again, well? Can I feed them?”
-
-“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
-that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
-over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
-forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
-shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
-are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
-Monseigneur!”
-
-The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
-a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
-behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
-diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
-his chateau.
-
-The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
-the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
-at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
-of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
-man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
-could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
-in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
-stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
-been extinguished.
-
-The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
-was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
-for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
-of his chateau was opened to him.
-
-“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”
-
-“Monseigneur, not yet.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Gorgon's Head
-
-
-It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
-with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
-staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
-business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
-stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
-all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
-finished, two centuries ago.
-
-Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
-to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
-of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
-flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
-door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
-in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
-save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
-those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
-heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
-
-The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
-hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
-grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
-peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
-was angry.
-
-Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
-Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
-the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
-to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
-others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
-the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
-befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
-The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
-break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
-but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
-pages in the history of France.
-
-A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
-room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
-lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
-closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
-black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
-
-“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
-said he was not arrived.”
-
-Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
-
-“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
-table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
-
-In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
-sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
-he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
-lips, when he put it down.
-
-“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
-horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
-
-“Monseigneur? That?”
-
-“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”
-
-It was done.
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
-here.”
-
-The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
-the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
-for instructions.
-
-“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”
-
-That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
-half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
-hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
-front of the chateau.
-
-“Ask who is arrived.”
-
-It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
-Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
-rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
-He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
-
-He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
-there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
-He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
-
-Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
-hands.
-
-“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
-seat at table.
-
-“Yesterday. And you?”
-
-“I come direct.”
-
-“From London?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.
-
-“On the contrary; I come direct.”
-
-“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
-intending the journey.”
-
-“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
-answer--“various business.”
-
-“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.
-
-So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
-When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
-looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
-fine mask, opened a conversation.
-
-“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
-took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
-a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
-sustained me.”
-
-“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”
-
-“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
-the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”
-
-The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
-lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
-graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
-breeding that it was not reassuring.
-
-“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
-expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
-circumstances that surrounded me.”
-
-“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.
-
-“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
-deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
-and would know no scruple as to means.”
-
-“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
-two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”
-
-“I recall it.”
-
-“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
-
-His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
-instrument.
-
-“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
-bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
-France here.”
-
-“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
-“Dare I ask you to explain?”
-
-“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
-been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
-have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”
-
-“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
-of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
-Pray excuse me!”
-
-“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
-yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.
-
-“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
-politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
-consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
-your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
-yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
-at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
-aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
-might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
-and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
-(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
-things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
-of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
-dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
-one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
-some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
-lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
-assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
-to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
-bad!”
-
-The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
-as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
-containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
-
-“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
-time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
-more detested than any name in France.”
-
-“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
-involuntary homage of the low.”
-
-“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
-look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
-deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”
-
-“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
-merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
-Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
-crossed his legs.
-
-But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
-thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
-him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
-and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
-indifference.
-
-“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
-and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
-obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
-out the sky.”
-
-That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
-chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
-they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
-him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
-the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
-he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
-way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
-was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
-
-“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
-of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
-terminate our conference for the night?”
-
-“A moment more.”
-
-“An hour, if you please.”
-
-“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
-of wrong.”
-
-“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
-and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
-
-“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
-to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
-a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
-our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
-when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
-inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”
-
-“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.
-
-“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
-frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
-execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
-look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
-redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”
-
-“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
-breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
-will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”
-
-Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
-cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
-quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
-touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
-a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
-body, and said,
-
-“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
-lived.”
-
-When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
-box in his pocket.
-
-“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
-bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
-Monsieur Charles, I see.”
-
-“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
-renounce them.”
-
-“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
-is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”
-
-“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
-to me from you, to-morrow--”
-
-“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”
-
-“--or twenty years hence--”
-
-“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
-supposition.”
-
-“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
-relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
-
-“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
-under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
-mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
-and suffering.”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
-
-“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
-qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
-weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
-it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
-another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
-on it, and on all this land.”
-
-“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
-philosophy, graciously intend to live?”
-
-“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
-their backs, may have to do some day--work.”
-
-“In England, for example?”
-
-“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
-family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”
-
-The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
-lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
-Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
-valet.
-
-“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
-prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
-with a smile.
-
-“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
-be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”
-
-“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
-know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“With a daughter?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
-in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
-which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
-time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
-straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
-looked handsomely diabolic.
-
-“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
-commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
-outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
-looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
-
-“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
-again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
-chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
-added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
-valet to his own bedroom.
-
-The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
-loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
-night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
-noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
-enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
-periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
-coming on.
-
-He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
-scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
-toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
-prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
-the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
-chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
-the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
-tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”
-
-“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”
-
-So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
-gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
-with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
-
-The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
-for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
-rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
-very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
-the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
-hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
-
-For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
-stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
-dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
-The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
-were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
-have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
-taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
-the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
-the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
-freed.
-
-The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
-at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
-minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
-hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
-and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
-
-Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
-trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
-of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
-crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
-weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
-the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
-At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
-mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
-
-Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
-windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
-shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
-lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
-fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
-and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
-out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
-and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
-prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
-foot.
-
-The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
-surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
-reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
-now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
-round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
-doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
-pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
-
-All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
-return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
-chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
-figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
-everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
-
-What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
-at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
-much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
-peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
-to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
-no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
-down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
-fountain.
-
-All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
-in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
-emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
-in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
-on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
-trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
-the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
-all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
-on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
-highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
-into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
-himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
-and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
-a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
-(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
-the German ballad of Leonora?
-
-It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
-
-The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
-the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
-through about two hundred years.
-
-It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
-mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
-heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
-was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
-
-“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”
-
-
-
-
-X. Two Promises
-
-
-More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
-Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
-language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
-would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
-young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
-living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
-its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
-sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
-at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
-to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
-dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
-tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
-profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
-work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
-known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
-circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
-So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
-
-In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
-to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
-would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
-did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
-
-A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
-read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
-contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
-and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
-London.
-
-Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
-when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
-invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
-woman.
-
-He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
-heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
-he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
-confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
-him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
-at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
-long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
-mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
-much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
-
-That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
-summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
-he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
-of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
-day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
-
-He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
-which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
-their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
-very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
-of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
-sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
-exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
-frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
-
-He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
-ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
-sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
-
-“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
-return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
-both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”
-
-“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
-a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
-Manette--”
-
-“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
-delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
-soon be home.”
-
-“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
-being from home, to beg to speak to you.”
-
-There was a blank silence.
-
-“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
-and speak on.”
-
-He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
-easy.
-
-“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
- so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
-on which I am about to touch may not--”
-
-He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
-had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
-
-“Is Lucie the topic?”
-
-“She is.”
-
-“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
-to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”
-
-“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
-Manette!” he said deferentially.
-
-There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
-
-“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”
-
-His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
-originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
-Darnay hesitated.
-
-“Shall I go on, sir?”
-
-Another blank.
-
-“Yes, go on.”
-
-“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
-I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
-the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
-laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
-disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
-her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”
-
-The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
-ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
-and cried:
-
-“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”
-
-His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
-Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
-extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
-so received it, and remained silent.
-
-“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
-moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”
-
-He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
-raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
-overshadowed his face:
-
-“Have you spoken to Lucie?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Nor written?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
-to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
-you.”
-
-He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
-
-“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
-Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
-you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
-belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
-can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
-child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
-with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
-is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
-itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
-now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
-years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
-early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
-you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
-hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
-in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
-you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
-neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
-own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
-loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
-have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”
-
-Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
-little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
-
-“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
-with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
-long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
-now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
-your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
-Heaven is my witness that I love her!”
-
-“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
-before now. I believe it.”
-
-“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
-struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
-that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
-put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
-word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
-should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
-a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
-heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
-now touch this honoured hand.”
-
-He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
-
-“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
-you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
-you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
-in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
-life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
-with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
-come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”
-
-His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
-moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
-his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
-conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
-occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
-
-“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
-you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
-you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”
-
-“None. As yet, none.”
-
-“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
-ascertain that, with my knowledge?”
-
-“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
-might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”
-
-“Do you seek any guidance from me?”
-
-“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
-in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”
-
-“Do you seek any promise from me?”
-
-“I do seek that.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
-understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
-innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
-could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”
-
-“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”
-
-“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
-favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
-Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
-word, to save my life.”
-
-“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
-well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
-delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
-respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
-heart.”
-
-“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
-supplied the rest.
-
-“Is sought by any other suitor?”
-
-“It is what I meant to say.”
-
-Her father considered a little before he answered:
-
-“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
-occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”
-
-“Or both,” said Darnay.
-
-“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
-a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”
-
-“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
-part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
-bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
-may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
-me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
-condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
-require, I will observe immediately.”
-
-“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
-your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
-believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
-between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
-that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
-If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”
-
-The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
-the Doctor spoke:
-
-“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
-new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
-thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
-sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
-than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”
-
-So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
-his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
-hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
-
-“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
-“What was it you said to me?”
-
-He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
-condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
-
-“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
-part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
-not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
-why I am in England.”
-
-“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.
-
-“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
-secret from you.”
-
-“Stop!”
-
-For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
-another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
-
-“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
-should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
-promise?”
-
-“Willingly.
-
-“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
-should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”
-
-It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
-darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
-Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
-reading-chair empty.
-
-“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”
-
-Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
-bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
-his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
-blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”
-
-Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
-his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
-her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
-together for a long time.
-
-She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
-slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
-work, were all as usual.
-
-
-
-
-XI. A Companion Picture
-
-
-“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
-jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”
-
-Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
-and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
-a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
-of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
-arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
-November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
-bring grist to the mill again.
-
-Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
-application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
-through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
-the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
-his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
-intervals for the last six hours.
-
-“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
-his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
-his back.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
-surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
-shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”
-
-“_Do_ you?”
-
-“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”
-
-“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“Do I know her?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
-frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
-me to dinner.”
-
-“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
-posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
-because you are such an insensible dog.”
-
-“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
-sensitive and poetical spirit--”
-
-“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
-any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
-I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”
-
-“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”
-
-“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”
-
-“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.
-
-“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
-inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
-be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
-to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”
-
-“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
-way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
-as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
-moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
-hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
-Sydney!”
-
-“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
-be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
-to me.”
-
-“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
-rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
-to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
-fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”
-
-Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
-
-“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
-myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
-Why do I do it?”
-
-“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.
-
-“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
-get on.”
-
-“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
- answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
-to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”
-
-He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
-
-“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
-delivered in no very soothing tone.
-
-“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
-“Who is the lady?”
-
-“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
-Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
-for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
-half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
-make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
-me in slighting terms.”
-
-“I did?”
-
-“Certainly; and in these chambers.”
-
-Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
-drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
-
-“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
-lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
-delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
-little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
-You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
-think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
-a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
-of mine, who had no ear for music.”
-
-Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
-looking at his friend.
-
-“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
-fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
-please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
-will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
-and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
-but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
-astonished?”
-
-“You approve?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”
-
-“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
-you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
-be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
-ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
-enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
-feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
-inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
-that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
-credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
-say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
-know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
-you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
-you really ought to think about a nurse.”
-
-The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
-big as he was, and four times as offensive.
-
-“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
-I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
-you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
-you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
-understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
-respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
-or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
-kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”
-
-“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.
-
-
-
-
-XII. The Fellow of Delicacy
-
-
-Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
-fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
-to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
-debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
-well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
-at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
-before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
-and Hilary.
-
-As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
-saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
-grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
-plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
-plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
-the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
-consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
-case could be.
-
-Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
-proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
-Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
-himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
-
-Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
-while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
-Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
-on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
-along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
-seen how safe and strong he was.
-
-His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
-knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
-Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
-of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
-in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
-cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
-Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
-bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
-under the clouds were a sum.
-
-“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”
-
-It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
-place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
-in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
-squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
-the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
-the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
-
-The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
-recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
-you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
-of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
-hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
-self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
-
-“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
-business character.
-
-“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
-have come for a private word.”
-
-“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
-to the House afar off.
-
-“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
-desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
-be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
-in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
-visitor dubiously.
-
-“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
-What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
-appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
-my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
-Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
-manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
-“you know there really is so much too much of you!”
-
-“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
-opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
-Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”
-
-Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
-end, and bit the feather of a pen.
-
-“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”
-
-“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
-eligible, you are eligible.”
-
-“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.
-
-“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“And advancing?”
-
-“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
-able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”
-
-“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
-perceptibly crestfallen.
-
-“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
-
-“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”
-
-“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
-shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
-have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”
-
-“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
-having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”
-
-“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
-Stryver.
-
-“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
-a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
-complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
-head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
-been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
-
-“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
-when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
-causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
-lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
-young lady. The young lady goes before all.”
-
-“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
-elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
-present in question is a mincing Fool?”
-
-“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
-reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
-from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
-taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
-not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
-this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
-mind.”
-
-The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
-blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
-Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
-no better state now it was his turn.
-
-“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
-be no mistake about it.”
-
-Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
-hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
-toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
-
-“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
-to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
-bar?”
-
-“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”
-
-“Yes, I do.”
-
-“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”
-
-“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
-this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”
-
-“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
-not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
-business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
-Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
-of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
-spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
-may not be right?”
-
-“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
-parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
-in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
-new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”
-
-“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
-understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
-will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
-gentleman breathing.”
-
-“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.
-
-“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
-painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
-Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
-painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
-know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
-the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
-in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
-little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
-it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
-soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
-with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
-best spared. What do you say?”
-
-“How long would you keep me in town?”
-
-“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
-evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”
-
-“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
-hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
-in to-night. Good morning.”
-
-Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
-concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
-bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
-of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
-always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
-believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
-the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
-
-The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
-gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
-moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
-swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
-forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
-out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”
-
-It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
-great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
-Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”
-
-Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
-Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
-purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
-the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
-altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.
-
-“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
-bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
-Soho.”
-
-“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
-thinking of!”
-
-“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
-conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
-advice.”
-
-“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
-am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
-account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
-us say no more about it.”
-
-“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
-final way; “no matter, no matter.”
-
-“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.
-
-“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
-sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
-not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
-done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
-repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
-aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
-a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
-glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
-for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
-have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
-proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
-certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
-that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
-giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
-will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
-I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
-And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
-and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
-you were right, it never would have done.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
-Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
-showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
-“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
-thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”
-
-Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
-was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy
-
-
-If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
-house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
-and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
-cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
-which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
-pierced by the light within him.
-
-And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
-and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
-he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
-transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
-figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
-of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
-in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
-brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
-into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
-him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
-it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
-neighbourhood.
-
-On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
-that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
-delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
-City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
-for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
-those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
-animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
-they took him to the Doctor's door.
-
-He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
-never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
-embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
-his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
-a change in it.
-
-“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
-is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”
-
-“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
-live no better life?”
-
-“God knows it is a shame!”
-
-“Then why not change it?”
-
-Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
-there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
-answered:
-
-“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
-sink lower, and be worse.”
-
-He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
-table trembled in the silence that followed.
-
-She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
-be so, without looking at her, and said:
-
-“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
-what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”
-
-“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
-it would make me very glad!”
-
-“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”
-
-He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
-
-“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
-one who died young. All my life might have been.”
-
-“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
-sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”
-
-“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
-mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
-it!”
-
-She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
-of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
-been holden.
-
-“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
-love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
-poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
-conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
-bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
-disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
-no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
-be.”
-
-“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
-you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
-confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
-little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
-no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
-
-He shook his head.
-
-“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
-little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
-you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
-been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
-home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
-died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
-I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
-old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
-have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
-sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
-a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
-but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
-
-“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
-
-“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
-undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
-weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
-heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
-its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
-service, idly burning away.”
-
-“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
-than you were before you knew me--”
-
-“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
-anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
-
-“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
-attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
-make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
-good, with you, at all?”
-
-“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
-here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
-the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
-and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
-deplore and pity.”
-
-“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
-all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
-and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
-me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
-was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
-alone, and will be shared by no one?”
-
-“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”
-
-“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
-yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”
-
-“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”
-
-He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
-
-“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
-conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
-again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
-the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
-shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
-to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
-in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”
-
-He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
-sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
-down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
-stood looking back at her.
-
-“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
-hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
-but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
-wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
-shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
-what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
-to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”
-
-“I will, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
-you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
-between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
-it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
-you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
-there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
-embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
-me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
-thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
-ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
-and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
-grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
-happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
-beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
-a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”
-
-He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Honest Tradesman
-
-
-To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
-Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
-variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
-upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
-not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
-westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
-both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
-the sun goes down!
-
-With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
-like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
-watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
-running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
-since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
-women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
-Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
-companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
-to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
-have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
-the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
-purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
-
-Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
-the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
-but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
-
-It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
-few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
-unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
-Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
-unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
-attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
-funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
-funeral, which engendered uproar.
-
-“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
-buryin'.”
-
-“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.
-
-The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
-significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
-his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
-
-“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
-to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
-_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
-let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
-hear?”
-
-“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
-
-“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
-harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
-
-His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
-round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
-there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
-considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
-appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
-surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
-incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
- with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
-
-Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
-always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
-Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
-excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
-
-“What is it, brother? What's it about?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
-
-He asked another man. “Who is it?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
-nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
-greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
-
-At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
-against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
-funeral of one Roger Cly.
-
-“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
-Spi--i--ies!”
-
-“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
-assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”
-
-“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
-out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”
-
-The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
-that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
-suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
-so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
-doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
-for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
-that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
-shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
-other symbolical tears.
-
-These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
-enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
-crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
-They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
-out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
-its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
-much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
-the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
-while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
-exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
-was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
-the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
-coach.
-
-The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
-the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
-remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
-members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
-The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
-hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
-close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
-by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
-popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
-ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
-bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
-that part of the procession in which he walked.
-
-Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
-caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
-at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
-was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
-in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
-accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
-highly to its own satisfaction.
-
-The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
-providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
-genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
-passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
-was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
-the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
-they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
-window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
-and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
-been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
-the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
-coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
-the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
-progress of a mob.
-
-Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
-behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
-The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
-neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
-maturely considering the spot.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
-“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
-was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”
-
-Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
-himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
-station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
-his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
-amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
-man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
-his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
-
-Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
-job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
-usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
-
-“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
-entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
-shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
-for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
-
-The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
-
-“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
-angry apprehension.
-
-“I am saying nothing.”
-
-“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
-You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
-yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
-but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
-ironical dissatisfaction.
-
-“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
-bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
-oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
-
-“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
-another bite.
-
-“Yes, I am.”
-
-“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
-
-“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
-where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”
-
-“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”
-
-“Never you mind.”
-
-“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
-
-“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
-gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
-going out, till you've been long abed.”
-
-He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
-most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
-conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
-to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
-conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
-on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
-he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
-person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
-honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
-professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
-
-“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
-honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
-of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
-tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
-on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
-customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”
-
-Then he began grumbling again:
-
-“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
-know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
-flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
-your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
-and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”
-
-This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
-perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
-all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
-function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
-
-Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
-was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
-obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
-solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
-o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
-took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
-forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
-fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
-in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
-extinguished the light, and went out.
-
-Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
-bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
-followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
-court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
-his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
-door stood ajar all night.
-
-Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
-father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
-walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
-honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
-gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
-the two trudged on together.
-
-Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
-winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
-lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
-that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
-second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
-himself into two.
-
-The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
-under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
-brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
-wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
-the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
-Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
-Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
-defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
-He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
-third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
-there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
-and knees.
-
-It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
-holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
-in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
-and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
-that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
-tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
-creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
-fish.
-
-They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
-appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
-Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
-striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
-with his hair as stiff as his father's.
-
-But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
-only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
-were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
-the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
-screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
-strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
-earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
-it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
-wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
-made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
-
-He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
-it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
-to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
-was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
-upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
-and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
-shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
-was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
-roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
-like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
-too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
-to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
-and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
-incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
-got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
-it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
-stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
-his breast when he fell asleep.
-
-From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
-daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
-family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
-inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
-ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
-bed.
-
-“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
-
-“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.
-
-“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
-and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
-you?”
-
-“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.
-
-“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
-honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
-husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”
-
-“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”
-
-“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
-honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
-when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
-wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
-woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
-no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
-of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”
-
-The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
-the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
-at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
-his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
-down too, and fell asleep again.
-
-There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
-Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
-by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
-he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
-and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
-ostensible calling.
-
-Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
-along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
-from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
-solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
-and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
-improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
-that fine morning.
-
-“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
-at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
-Resurrection-Man?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
-should I know?”
-
-“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.
-
-“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
-hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”
-
-“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.
-
-“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
-branch of Scientific goods.”
-
-“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.
-
-“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
-growed up!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
-“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
-your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
-there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
-for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
-to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
-himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
-yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”
-
-
-
-
-XV. Knitting
-
-
-There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
-Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
-through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
-measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
-of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
-he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
-influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
-vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
-Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
-the dregs of it.
-
-This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
-early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
-on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
-brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
-slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
-not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
-were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
-have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
-and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
-looks.
-
-Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
-was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
-threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
-only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
-wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
-and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
-humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
-
-A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
-observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
-at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
-gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
-towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
-of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
-with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
-a long way off.
-
-Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
-high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
-his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
-mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
-the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
-of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
-flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
-followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
-the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
-
-“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
-an answering chorus of “Good day!”
-
-“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.
-
-Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
-their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
-
-“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
-travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
-Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
-He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
-drink, my wife!”
-
-A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
-mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
-and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
-bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
-Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
-
-Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
-than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
-rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
-He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
-Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
-
-“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.
-
-“Yes, thank you.”
-
-“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
-occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”
-
-Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
-courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
-staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
-sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
-
-No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
-gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
-man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
-him through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
-
-“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
-encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
-Speak, Jacques Five!”
-
-The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
-it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”
-
-“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
-commencement.”
-
-“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
-running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
-chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
-going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
-hanging by the chain--like this.”
-
-Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
-he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
-the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
-during a whole year.
-
-Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
-
-“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
-
-Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
-
-“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
-finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
-'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”
-
-“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.
-
-“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
-confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
-offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
-standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
-My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”
-
-“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
-interrupted. “Go on!”
-
-“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
-is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”
-
-“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
-he is unluckily found. Go on!”
-
-“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
-go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
-village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
-coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
-with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”
-
-With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
-elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
-
-“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
-and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
-spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
-see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
-that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
-going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
-their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
-road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
-Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
-with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
-to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
-be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
-on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”
-
-He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
-vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
-
-“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
-show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
-our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
-village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
-follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
-shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
-consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”
-
-He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
-butt-ends of muskets.
-
-“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
-laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
-but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
-the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
-and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
-darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”
-
-He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
-snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
-opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”
-
-“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
-voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
-village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
-locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
-except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
-my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
-my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
-iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
-hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
-dead man.”
-
-Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
-of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
-countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
-authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
-and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
-his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
-intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
-over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
-standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
-light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
-him.
-
-“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.
-
-“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
-at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
-distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
-of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
-faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
-the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
-whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
-executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
-that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
-that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
-It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”
-
-“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
-“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
-yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
-sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
-hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
-his hand.”
-
-“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
-his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
-strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
-food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
-and struck him blows. You hear?”
-
-“I hear, messieurs.”
-
-“Go on then,” said Defarge.
-
-“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
-countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
-the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
-that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
-father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
-parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
-with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
-which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
-poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
-that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
-says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
-the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
-I am not a scholar.”
-
-“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
-and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
-all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
-nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
-the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
-attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
-when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
-done--why, how old are you?”
-
-“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
-
-“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
-it.”
-
-“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
-on.”
-
-“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
-even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
-night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
-the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
-Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
-the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
-water.”
-
-The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
-and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
-
-“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
-the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
-have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
-of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
-a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
-laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
-from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
-fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
-there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”
-
-They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
-on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
-spectacle.
-
-“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
-water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
-I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
-bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
-across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
-messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”
-
-The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
-three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
-
-“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
-and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
-warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
-walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
-you see me!”
-
-After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
-and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
-door?”
-
-“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
-top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
-
-The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
-the garret.
-
-“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”
-
-“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.
-
-“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.
-
-“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”
-
-The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
-gnawing another finger.
-
-“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
-can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
-safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
-be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”
-
-“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
-undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
-a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
-own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
-Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
-to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
-crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”
-
-There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
-hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
-very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”
-
-“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
-easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
-with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
-on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
-Court; let him see them on Sunday.”
-
-“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
-wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”
-
-“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
-to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
-him to bring it down one day.”
-
-Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
-dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
-pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
-asleep.
-
-Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
-in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
-dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
-new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
-unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
-his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
-he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
-contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
-might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
-into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
-murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
-with it until the play was played out.
-
-Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
-(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
-and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
-madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
-additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
-afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
-see the carriage of the King and Queen.
-
-“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.
-
-“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”
-
-“What do you make, madame?”
-
-“Many things.”
-
-“For instance--”
-
-“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”
-
-The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
-of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
-and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
-fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
-and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
-shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
-ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
-and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
-sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
-intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
-Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
-ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
-terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
-more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
-with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
-hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
-and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
-from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
-pieces.
-
-“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
-patron; “you are a good boy!”
-
-The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
-having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
-
-“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
-these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
-insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”
-
-“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”
-
-“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
-stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
-in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
-tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
-deceive them too much.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
-confirmation.
-
-“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
-it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”
-
-“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
-pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
-pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly yes, madame.”
-
-“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
-set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
-you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”
-
-“It is true, madame.”
-
-“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
-a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
-“now, go home!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI. Still Knitting
-
-
-Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
-bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
-darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
-the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
-the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
-the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
-for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
-scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
-stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
-terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
-the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
-village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
-when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
-faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
-up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
-look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
-stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
-was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
-everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
-scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
-crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
-skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
-started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
-who could find a living there.
-
-Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
-stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
-of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
-night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
-world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
-star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
-the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
-the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
-vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
-
-The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
-in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
-journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
-guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
-examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
-of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
-with, and affectionately embraced.
-
-When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
-and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
-picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
-streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
-
-“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
-
-“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
-commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
-can say, but he knows of one.”
-
-“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
-business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
-man?”
-
-“He is English.”
-
-“So much the better. His name?”
-
-“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
-been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
-correctness.
-
-“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”
-
-“John.”
-
-“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
-“Good. His appearance; is it known?”
-
-“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
-complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
-thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
-sinister.”
-
-“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
-registered to-morrow.”
-
-They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
-and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
-the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
-stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
-her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
-dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
-of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
-handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
-night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
-up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
-condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
-walked up and down through life.
-
-The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
-neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
-by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
-it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
-whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
-
-“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
-money. “There are only the usual odours.”
-
-“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.
-
-“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
-never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
-him. “Oh, the men, the men!”
-
-“But my dear!” began Defarge.
-
-“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
-faint of heart to-night, my dear!”
-
-“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
-breast, “it _is_ a long time.”
-
-“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
-Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”
-
-“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
-Defarge.
-
-“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
-the lightning? Tell me.”
-
-Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
-too.
-
-“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
-swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
-earthquake?”
-
-“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.
-
-“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
-before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
-seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”
-
-She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
-
-“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
-“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
-coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
-is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
-that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
-the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
-more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
-you.”
-
-“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
-a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
-attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
-it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
-it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”
-
-“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
-were another enemy strangled.
-
-“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
-“We shall not see the triumph.”
-
-“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
-strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
-my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
-certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
-would--”
-
-Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
-
-“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
-cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”
-
-“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
-and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
-When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
-time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”
-
-Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
-little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
-out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
-manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
-
-Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
-wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
-now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
-usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
-drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
-and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
-perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
-dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
-out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
-themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
-the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
-thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
-
-A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
-felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
-rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
-
-It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
-customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
-wine-shop.
-
-“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.
-
-“Good day, monsieur.”
-
-She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
-“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
-hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
-thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
-expression! Good day, one and all!”
-
-“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
-mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
-
-Madame complied with a polite air.
-
-“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
-
-It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
-Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
-however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
-visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
-of observing the place in general.
-
-“You knit with great skill, madame.”
-
-“I am accustomed to it.”
-
-“A pretty pattern too!”
-
-“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
-
-“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
-
-“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
-fingers moved nimbly.
-
-“Not for use?”
-
-“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
-madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
-coquetry, “I'll use it!”
-
-It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
-decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
-men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
-catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
-looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
-Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
-one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
-but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
-poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
-unimpeachable.
-
-“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
-and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
-'BARSAD' before you go.”
-
-“You have a husband, madame?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“Children?”
-
-“No children.”
-
-“Business seems bad?”
-
-“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
-
-“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”
-
-“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
-extra something into his name that boded him no good.
-
-“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
-Of course.”
-
-“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
-enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
-think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
-it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
-embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”
-
-The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
-not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
-stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
-Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
-
-“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
-Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
-
-“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
-for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
-price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”
-
-“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
-that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
-susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
-is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
-fellow? Between ourselves.”
-
-“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.
-
-“Is there not?”
-
-“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.
-
-As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
-him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
-Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
-
-“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
-confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
-
-“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
-“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”
-
-“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
-day!”
-
-“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.
-
-“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
-you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
-and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”
-
-“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
-of it.”
-
-Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
-hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
-person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
-have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
-attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
-water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
-out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
-it.
-
-“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
- observed Defarge.
-
-“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
-in its miserable inhabitants.”
-
-“Hah!” muttered Defarge.
-
-“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
- pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
-associations with your name.”
-
-“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.
-
-“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
-had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
-informed of the circumstances?”
-
-“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
-to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
-warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
-
-“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
-from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
-monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
-Tellson and Company--over to England.”
-
-“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.
-
-“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
-Manette and his daughter, in England.”
-
-“Yes?” said Defarge.
-
-“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.
-
-“No,” said Defarge.
-
-“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
-song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
-arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
-they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
-no correspondence.”
-
-“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”
-
-“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
-ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”
-
-“Oh! You know I am English.”
-
-“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
-suppose the man is.”
-
-He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
-of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
-end, he added:
-
-“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
-one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
-poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
-going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
-was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
-Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
-Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”
-
-Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
-effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
-as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
-troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
-spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
-
-Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
-worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
-paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
-in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
-pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
-after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
-husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
-come back.
-
-“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
-as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
-said of Ma'amselle Manette?”
-
-“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
-is probably false. But it may be true.”
-
-“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.
-
-“If it is?” repeated his wife.
-
-“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
-sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”
-
-“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
-“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
-to end him. That is all I know.”
-
-“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
-Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
-“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
-husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
-the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”
-
-“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
-madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
-for their merits; that is enough.”
-
-She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
-took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
-Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
-decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
-disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
-shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
-
-In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
-himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
-to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
-Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
-to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
-her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
-knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
-mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
-jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
-the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
-
-But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
-Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
-among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
-behind.
-
-Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
-great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
-grand woman!”
-
-Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
-the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
-the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
-darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
-pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
-thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
-wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
-Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
-knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
-a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
-counting dropping heads.
-
-
-
-
-XVII. One Night
-
-
-Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
-Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
-under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
-radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
-seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
-
-Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
-for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
-
-“You are happy, my dear father?”
-
-“Quite, my child.”
-
-They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
-was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
-in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
-both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
-time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
-
-“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
-love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
-for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
-if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
-the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
-self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”
-
-Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
-
-In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
-upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
-the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
-its going.
-
-“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
-quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
-ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
-own heart, do you feel quite certain?”
-
-Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
-scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
-added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
-seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
-was--without it.”
-
-“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”
-
-“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
-it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
-fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
-wasted--”
-
-She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
-the word.
-
-“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
-natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
-comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
-how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”
-
-“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
-with you.”
-
-He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
-without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
-
-“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
-Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
-should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
-cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”
-
-It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
-refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
-sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
-afterwards.
-
-“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
-“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
-light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
-of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
-my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
-that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
-could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
-with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
-manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
-and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”
-
-The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
-deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
-the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
-cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
-
-“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
-child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
-been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
-was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
-imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
-was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
-to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
-will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
-
-She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
-
-“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
-me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
-cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
-to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
-the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
-blank.”
-
-“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
-never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
-
-“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
-brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
-the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”
-
-“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”
-
-“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
-have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
-like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
-foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
-leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
-image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
-her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
-But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”
-
-“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”
-
-“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
-sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
-and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
-that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
-have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
-I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
-perplexed distinctions.”
-
-His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
-cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
-
-“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
-coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
-life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
-was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
-cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”
-
-“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
-that was I.”
-
-“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
-they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
-a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
-up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
-imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
-But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
-blessed her.”
-
-“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
-me as fervently to-morrow?”
-
-“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
-for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
-happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
-happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”
-
-He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
-Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
-house.
-
-There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
-be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
-change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
-by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
-apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
-
-Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
-three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
-was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
-little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
-
-So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
-But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
-downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
-beforehand.
-
-All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
-asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
-hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
-shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
-then, leaned over him, and looked at him.
-
-Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
-covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
-mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
-resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
-beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
-
-She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
-she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
-sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
-more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
-of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
-in praying for him.
-
-
-
-
-XVIII. Nine Days
-
-
-The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
-closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
-Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
-Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
-reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
-but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
-have been the bridegroom.
-
-“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
-and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
-pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
-you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
-what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
-on my friend Mr. Charles!”
-
-“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
-therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”
-
-“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”
-
-“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
-on occasion.)
-
-“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
-a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
-anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
-Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
-I couldn't see it.”
-
-“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
-had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
-invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
-speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
-might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”
-
-“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.
-
-“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
-gentleman of that name.
-
-“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
-
-“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
-seems probable, too.”
-
-“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
-were put in your cradle.”
-
-“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
-with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
-pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
-her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
-I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
-opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
-your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
-own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
-fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
-shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
-the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
-your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
-him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
-Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
-old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
-own.”
-
-For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
-well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
-golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
-delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
-
-The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
-Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
-went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
-But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
-shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
-old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
-wind.
-
-He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
-which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
-another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
-eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
-
-Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
-group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
-glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
-dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
-breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
-mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
-mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
-door at parting.
-
-It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
-cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
-enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”
-
-And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
-gone.
-
-The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
-preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
-and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
-the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
-change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
-there, had struck him a poisoned blow.
-
-He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
-expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
-the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
-manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
-room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
-wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
-
-“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
-think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
-I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
-presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
-there, and all will be well.”
-
-It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
-Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
-old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
-into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
-
-“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”
-
-Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
-lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
-He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”
-
-Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
-Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
-when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
-down, and he was very busy.
-
-“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”
-
-The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
-were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.
-
-He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
-throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
-haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
-hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
-shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
-him, and asked what it was.
-
-“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
-ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”
-
-“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”
-
-He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
-his work.
-
-“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
-occupation. Think, dear friend!”
-
-Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
-a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
-a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
-words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
-the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
-he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
-seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
-trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.
-
-Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
-all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
-the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
-conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
-precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
-few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
-on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
-called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
-two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
-addressed to her by the same post.
-
-These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
-the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
-another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
-thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
-
-In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
-being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
-attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
-therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
-first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
-room.
-
-He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
-to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
-attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
-before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
-fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
-window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
-natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
-
-Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
-that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
-after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
-When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
-and said to him:
-
-“Will you go out?”
-
-He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
-looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
-
-“Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
-Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
-with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
-some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
-business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
-
-Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
-at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
-time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
-fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
-bench and to work.
-
-On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
-and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
-returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
-that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
-to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
-at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
-present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
-amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
-enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
-friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
-appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
-him.
-
-When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
-
-“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”
-
-As before, he repeated, “Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
-from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
-meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
-sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
-slipped away to his bench.
-
-The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
-heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
-The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
-seven days, eight days, nine days.
-
-With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
-heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
-well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
-observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
-was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
-his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
-the dusk of the ninth evening.
-
-
-
-
-XIX. An Opinion
-
-
-Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
-tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
-into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
-night.
-
-He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
-done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
-Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
-and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
-at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
-Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
-studious and attentive.
-
-Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
-giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
-not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
-friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
-as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
-which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
-
-It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
-answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
-corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
-How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
-Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
-Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?
-
-Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
-had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
-resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
-He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
-breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
-had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
-Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
-the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
-
-Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
-out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
-toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
-white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
-usual way, and came to breakfast.
-
-So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
-delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
-advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
-place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
-the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
-counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
-he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
-he sought. And that aid was his own.
-
-Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
-Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
-
-“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
-very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
-very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
-so.”
-
-Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
-Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
-at his hands more than once.
-
-“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
-arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
-give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
-for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”
-
-“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
-shock--?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”
-
-Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
-
-“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
-of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
-the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
-shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
-long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
-are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
-which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
-himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
-the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
-be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
-great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
-stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
-there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”
-
-The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”
-
-“Nine days and nights.”
-
-“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
-resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”
-
-“That is the fact.”
-
-“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
-collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
-originally?”
-
-“Once.”
-
-“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
-respects--as he was then?”
-
-“I think in all respects.”
-
-“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”
-
-“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
-It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”
-
-The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
-very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
-the two spoke for a little while.
-
-“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
-considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
-and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
-possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
-intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
-I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
-relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
-be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
-about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
-more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
-if I knew how.
-
-“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
-knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
-able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
-Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
-and teach me how to be a little more useful.”
-
-Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
-Mr. Lorry did not press him.
-
-“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
-“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
-unforeseen by its subject.”
-
-“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
-
-“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
-
-“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
-mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
-himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”
-
-“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
-upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
-him?”
-
-“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
-believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”
-
-“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
-after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
-attack?”
-
-“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
-extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
-was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
-distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
-there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
-would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
-particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
-effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”
-
-“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
-with natural hesitation.
-
-The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
-answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
-
-“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
-
-“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
-great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
-should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
-something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
-and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
-the worst was over.”
-
-“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
-
-“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
-be instructed. I may go on?”
-
-“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
-hand.
-
-“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
-he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
-knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
-he do too much?”
-
-“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
-singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
-part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
-things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
-direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”
-
-“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
-
-“I think I am quite sure of it.”
-
-“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”
-
-“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
-violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
-
-“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
-that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
-disorder?”
-
-“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
-firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
-association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
-extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
-happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
-such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
-believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”
-
-He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
-would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
-confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
-endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
-confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
-really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
-be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
-conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
-last nine days, he knew that he must face it.
-
-“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
-so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
-will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
-case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
-time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
-found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
-him?”
-
-The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
-nervously on the ground.
-
-“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
-his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”
-
-Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
-ground.
-
-“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
-understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
-shook his head, and stopped.
-
-“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
-“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
-of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
-occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
-his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
-the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
-practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
-torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
-quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
-himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
-of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
-find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
-fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
-
-He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
-face.
-
-“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
-who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
-bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
-the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
-with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
-forge?”
-
-There was another silence.
-
-“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
-companion.”
-
-“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
-in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
-sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
-Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
-sake, my dear Manette!”
-
-Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
-
-“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
-it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
-let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
-passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
-three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
-day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
-had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
-explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
-she had no suspicions.
-
-On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
-his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
-carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
-guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
-Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
-which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
-burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
-purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
-shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
-and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
-while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
-traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
-crime.
-
-
-
-
-XX. A Plea
-
-
-When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
-offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
-many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
-in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
-about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
-
-He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
-speaking to him when no one overheard.
-
-“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
-
-“We are already friends, I hope.”
-
-“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
-mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
-friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
-
-Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
-good-fellowship, what he did mean?
-
-“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
-in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
-remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
-usual?”
-
-“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
-you had been drinking.”
-
-“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
-always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
-when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
-preach.”
-
-“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
-to me.”
-
-“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
-away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
-you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
-wish you would forget it.”
-
-“I forgot it long ago.”
-
-“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
-me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
-and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
-
-“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
-for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
-surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
-faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
-Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
-remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”
-
-“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
-you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
-don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
-say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”
-
-“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
-quarrel with _your_ light answer.”
-
-“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
-I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
-incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
-ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”
-
-“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
-
-“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
-any good, and never will.”
-
-“I don't know that you 'never will.'”
-
-“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
-to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
-reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
-permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
-be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
-resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
-furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
-doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
-should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
-dare say, to know that I had it.”
-
-“Will you try?”
-
-“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
-indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”
-
-“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
-
-They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
-afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
-
-When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
-Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
-this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
-problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
-bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
-him as he showed himself.
-
-He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
-wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
-her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
-marked.
-
-“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
-
-“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
-and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
-to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”
-
-“What is it, my Lucie?”
-
-“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
-ask it?”
-
-“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
-
-What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
-cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
-
-“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
-respect than you expressed for him to-night.”
-
-“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
-
-“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”
-
-“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”
-
-“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
-lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
-he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
-wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”
-
-“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
-astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
-of him.”
-
-“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
-scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
-now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
-even magnanimous things.”
-
-She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
-that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
-
-“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
-head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
-we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”
-
-The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
-Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”
-
-He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
-her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
-could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
-of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
-that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
-have parted from his lips for the first time--
-
-“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI. Echoing Footsteps
-
-
-A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
-the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
-her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
-companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
-the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
-years.
-
-At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
-when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
-dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
-afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
-Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
-doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
-her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
-footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
-be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
-eyes, and broke like waves.
-
-That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
-advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
-her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
-mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
-the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
-children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
-her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
-joy to her.
-
-Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
-weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
-their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
-echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
-step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
-Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
-unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
-plane-tree in the garden!
-
-Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
-harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
-pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
-smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
-leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
-tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
-departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
-forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
-
-Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
-echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
-of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
-mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
-murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
-the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
-dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
-the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
-
-The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
-half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
-uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
-done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
-regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
-all true echoes for ages and ages.
-
-No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
-blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
-but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
-delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
-such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
-was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
-and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
-him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”
-
-Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
-forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
-his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
-in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
-life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
-stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
-it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
-state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
-rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
-property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
-but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
-
-These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
-offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
-sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
-Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
-bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
-rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
-Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
-training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
-pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
-declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
-Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
-diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
-to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
-parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
-latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
-it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
-originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
-off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
-
-These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
-amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
-daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
-child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
-and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
-Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
-with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
-waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
-in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
-more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
-many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
-to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
-the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
-as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
-have too much to do?”
-
-But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
-in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
-little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
-as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
-
-On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
-Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
-her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
-all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
-lightning from the same place.
-
-“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
-I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
-business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
-to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
-run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
-to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
-among some of them for sending it to England.”
-
-“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--
-
-“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
-there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
-getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
-without due occasion.”
-
-“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”
-
-“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
-himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
-am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
-Manette?”
-
-“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
-
-“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
-which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
-reason. You are not going out, I hope?”
-
-“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
-Doctor.
-
-“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
-pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
-see.”
-
-“Of course, it has been kept for you.”
-
-“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”
-
-“And sleeping soundly.”
-
-“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
-otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
-all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
-come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
-the echoes about which you have your theory.”
-
-“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”
-
-“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
-are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”
-
-Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
-life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
-footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
-the dark London window.
-
-Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
-heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
-heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
-roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
-struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
-all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
-weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
-
-Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
-agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
-heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
-have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
-powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
-weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
-could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
-force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
-heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
-Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
-with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
-
-As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
-circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
-had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
-already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
-thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
-another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
-
-“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
-One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
-patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”
-
-“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
-knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
-in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
-and a cruel knife.
-
-“Where do you go, my wife?”
-
-“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
-of women, by-and-bye.”
-
-“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
-friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”
-
-With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
-into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
-depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
-beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
-began.
-
-Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
-towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
-the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
-a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
-wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
-
-Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
-cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
-all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
-Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
-the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
-wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
-
-“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
-the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
-cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
-revenge.
-
-Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
-drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
-displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
-weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
-at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
-execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
-furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
-single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
-towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
-by the service of Four fierce hours.
-
-A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
-perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
-the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
-wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
-walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
-
-So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
-draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
-struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
-outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
-made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
-Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
-inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
-exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
-furious dumb-show.
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-“The Records!”
-
-“The secret cells!”
-
-“The instruments of torture!”
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
-the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
-eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
-billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
-threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
-undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
-these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
-hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
-wall.
-
-“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
-there is no one there.”
-
-“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
-Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“The meaning, monsieur?”
-
-“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
-shall strike you dead?”
-
-“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
-
-“Monsieur, it is a cell.”
-
-“Show it me!”
-
-“Pass this way, then.”
-
-Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
-by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
-held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
-been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
-as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
-noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
-its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
-outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
-occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
-air like spray.
-
-Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
-hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
-and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
-waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
-linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
-there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
-but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
-tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
-and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
-to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
-come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
-
-The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
-the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
-in:
-
-“One hundred and five, North Tower!”
-
-There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
-with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
-stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
-across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
-on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
-the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
-
-“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
-Defarge to the turnkey.
-
-The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
-
-“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”
-
-“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
-
-“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
-with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
-wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
-a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
-me!”
-
-He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
-exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
-table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
-
-“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
-among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
- throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
-light higher, you!”
-
-With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
-peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
-and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
-and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
-in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
-into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
-cautious touch.
-
-“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”
-
-“Nothing.”
-
-“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
-them, you!”
-
-The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
-again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
-retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
-of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
-more.
-
-They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
-Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
-upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
-Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
-judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
-blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
-unavenged.
-
-In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
-encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
-decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
-woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
-“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
-remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
-the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
-close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
-be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
-long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
-when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
-upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.
-
-The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
-of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
-Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
-iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
-governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
-where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
-the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
-means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
-swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
-
-The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
-of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
-were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
-voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
-until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
-
-But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
-in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
-fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
-more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
-released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
-overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
-Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
-Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
-drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
-faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
-faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
-lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
-IT!”
-
-Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
-accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
-and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
-hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
-Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
-hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
-and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
-and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
-at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
-stained red.
-
-
-
-
-XXII. The Sea Still Rises
-
-
-Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
-his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
-the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
-Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
-Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
-Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
-themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
-portentously elastic swing with them.
-
-Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
-contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
-knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
-of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
-the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
-hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
-but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
-destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
-before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
-The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
-they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
-the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
-last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.
-
-Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
-to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
-sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
-grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
-already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
-
-“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”
-
-As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
-Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
-murmur came rushing along.
-
-“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”
-
-Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
-around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
- Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
-mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
-sprung to their feet.
-
-“Say then, my husband. What is it?”
-
-“News from the other world!”
-
-“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”
-
-“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
-that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”
-
-“Everybody!” from all throats.
-
-“The news is of him. He is among us!”
-
-“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”
-
-“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
-to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
-found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
-seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
-said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”
-
-Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
-never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
-could have heard the answering cry.
-
-A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
-steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
-was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
-
-“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”
-
-Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
-in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
-The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
-her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
-house, rousing the women.
-
-The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
-from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
-the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
-such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
-children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
-famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
-another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
-Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
-Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
-these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
-alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
-who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
-to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
-breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
-suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
-knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
-and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
-Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
-Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
-him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
-whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
-dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
-belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
-
-Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
-the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
-his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
-of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
-such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
-a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
-wailing children.
-
-No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
-this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
-open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
-and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
-from him in the Hall.
-
-“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
-with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
-Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
-under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
-
-The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
-her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
-others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
-clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
-and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
-expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
-a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
-wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
-to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
-telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
-
-At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
-protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
-too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
-stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
-him!
-
-It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
-had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
-wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
-her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
-had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
-perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
-out! Bring him to the lamp!”
-
-Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
-his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
-and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
-face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
-entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
-action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
-another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
-a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
-of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
-might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
-while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
-screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
-him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
-held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
-mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
-
-Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
-and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
-the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
-people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
-five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
-on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
-breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
-pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
-through the streets.
-
-Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
-wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
-long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
-they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
-embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
-again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
-frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
-slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
-common, afterwards supping at their doors.
-
-Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
-most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
-some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
-cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
-share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
-and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
-hoped.
-
-It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
-knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
-husky tones, while fastening the door:
-
-“At last it is come, my dear!”
-
-“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
-
-Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
-her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
-only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
-Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
-the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
-was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
-Antoine's bosom.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII. Fire Rises
-
-
-There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
-the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
-highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
-poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
-crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
-but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
-them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
-be what he was ordered.
-
-Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
-Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
-shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
-dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
-animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
-out.
-
-Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
-blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
-luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
-nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
-things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
-Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
-be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
-was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
-flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
-its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
-to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
-unaccountable.
-
-But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
-it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
-it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
-of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
-the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
-of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
-the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
-disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
-beautifying features of Monseigneur.
-
-For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
-dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
-to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
-thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
-he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
-and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
-foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
-a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
-without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
-aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
-mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
-highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
-with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
-
-Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
-as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
-could get from a shower of hail.
-
-The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
-and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
-in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
-intelligible:
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?”
-
-“All well, Jacques.”
-
-“Touch then!”
-
-They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
-
-“No dinner?”
-
-“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
-
-“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”
-
-He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
-steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
-it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
-thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
-
-“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
-time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
-
-“To-night?” said the mender of roads.
-
-“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
-
-“Where?”
-
-“Here.”
-
-He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
-one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
-of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
-
-“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
-
-“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
-here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”
-
-“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
-over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
-Well?”
-
-“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
-village.”
-
-“Good. When do you cease to work?”
-
-“At sunset.”
-
-“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
-resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
-wake me?”
-
-“Surely.”
-
-The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
-great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
-was fast asleep directly.
-
-As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
-away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
-by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
-now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
-heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
-his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
-The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
-red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
-beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
-and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
-of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
-footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
-with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
-leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
-sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
-secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
-with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
-Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
-drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
-this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
-looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
-obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
-
-The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
-brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
-of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
-them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
-the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
-to go down into the village, roused him.
-
-“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
-summit of the hill?”
-
-“About.”
-
-“About. Good!”
-
-The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
-according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
-squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
-appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
-When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
-as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
-curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
-together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
-looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
-chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
-alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
-chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
-the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
-to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
-
-The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
-solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
-the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
-flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
-swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
-the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
-stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
-had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
-heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
-branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
-lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
-was black again.
-
-But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
-visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
-Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
-picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
-and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
-Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
-stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
-
-A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
-there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
-spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
-space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
-Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
-impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
-mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
-with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
-sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.
-
-The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
-through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
-the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
-removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
-chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
-timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
-looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
-of lips, “It must burn.”
-
-As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
-village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
-fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
-lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
-every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
-occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
-Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
-that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
-authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
-and that post-horses would roast.
-
-The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
-raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
-infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
-and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
-torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
-two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
-again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
-and contending with the fire.
-
-The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
-scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
-figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
-lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
-dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
-heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
-splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
-birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
-trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
-roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
-destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
-abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.
-
-Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
-bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
-the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
-of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
-days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
-house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
-Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
-with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
-withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
-resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
-of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
-parapet, and crush a man or two below.
-
-Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
-distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
-combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
-ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
-which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
-A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
-the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
-Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
-rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
-and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
-while.
-
-Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
-other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
-the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
-had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
-less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
-functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
-in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
-North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
-The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
-no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
-successfully.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
-In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
-the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
-flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
-the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
-of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
-tissue of the life of her home.
-
-Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
-the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
-feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
-a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
-danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
-in.
-
-Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
-his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
-to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
-this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
-infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
-ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
-boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
-and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
-sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
-
-The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
-mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
-eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
-Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
-out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
-outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
-all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
-“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
-
-The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
-come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
-
-As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
-Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
-haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
-without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
-Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
-to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
-house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
-from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
-storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
-provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
-by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
-from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
-a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
-time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
-was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
-consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
-out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
-through Temple Bar to read.
-
-On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
-Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
-penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
-the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
-hour or so of the time of closing.
-
-“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
-Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”
-
-“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
-disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
-
-“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
-some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
-enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
-upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
-interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
-disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
-House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
-old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
-long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
-myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
-these years, who ought to be?”
-
-“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
-and like one thinking aloud.
-
-“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
-Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
-are a wise counsellor.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
-thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
-my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
-the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
-here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
-and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
-after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
-
-“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
-are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
-France at this time of day!”
-
-“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
-more to the purpose that you say you are.”
-
-“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
-glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
-conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
-of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
-Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
-of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
-might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
-afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
-with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
-getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
-precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
-I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
-bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
-the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
-
-“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
-the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
-Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
-impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
-to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
-whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
-every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
-the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
-as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
-
-“And do you really go to-night?”
-
-“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
-delay.”
-
-“And do you take no one with you?”
-
-“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
-to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
-bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
-Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
-of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
-master.”
-
-“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
-youthfulness.”
-
-“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
-commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
-live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
-
-This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
-Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
-would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
-much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
-was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
-terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
-the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
-omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
-millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
-should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
-years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
-vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
-restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
-and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
-without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
-such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
-in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
-already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
-
-Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
-way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
-to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
-them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
-accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
-of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
-with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
-going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
-word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
-
-The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
-before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
-whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
-that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
-name. The address, turned into English, ran:
-
-“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
-France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
-London, England.”
-
-On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
-express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
-be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
-between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
-suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
-
-“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
-I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
-gentleman is to be found.”
-
-The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
-was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
-held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
-person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
-it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
-and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
-English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
-
-“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
-polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
-knew him.”
-
-“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
-been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
-hay--“some years ago.”
-
-“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
-through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
-Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
-the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
-
-“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
-fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
-
-Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
-the shoulder, and said:
-
-“I know the fellow.”
-
-“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
-times.”
-
-“But I do ask why?”
-
-“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
-hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
-who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
-ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
-that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
-man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
-because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
-why.”
-
-Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
-said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”
-
-“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
-Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
-understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
-tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
-to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
-gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
-“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
-find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
-precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
-of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
-
-With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
-shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
-his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
-in the general departure from the Bank.
-
-“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
-deliver it?”
-
-“I do.”
-
-“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
-addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
-that it has been here some time?”
-
-“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
-
-“From here, at eight.”
-
-“I will come back, to see you off.”
-
-Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
-Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
-letter, and read it. These were its contents:
-
-
-“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
-
-“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
-
-“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
-village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
-brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
-great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
-ground.
-
-“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
-life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
-the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
-emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
-against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
-before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
-imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
-had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
-an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
-
-“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
-emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
-not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
-ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
-
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
-succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
-Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
-
-“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
-nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
-assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
-
-“Your afflicted,
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-
-The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
-by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
-only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
-reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
-considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
-
-He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
-the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
-resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
-conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
-he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
-his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
-mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
-systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
-do it, and that it had never been done.
-
-The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
-always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
-which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
-annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
-following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
-these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
-without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
-the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
-until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
-France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
-confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
-was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
-France that might impeach him for it.
-
-But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
-far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
-relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
-favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
-bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
-on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
-there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
-in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
-the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
-own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
-
-This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
-that he would go to Paris.
-
-Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
-him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
-to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
-him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
-attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
-worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
-could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
-trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
-and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
-him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
-brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
-(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
-which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
-coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
-letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
-justice, honour, and good name.
-
-His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
-
-Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
-struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
-with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
-it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
-gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
-it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
-sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
-saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
-Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
-
-As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
-neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
-Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
-reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
-should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
-the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
-situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
-to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
-discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
-in his course.
-
-He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
-return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
-in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
-nothing of his intention now.
-
-A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
-booted and equipped.
-
-“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
-would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
-perhaps you will take a verbal one?”
-
-“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”
-
-“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
-
-“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
-hand.
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
-
-“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
-
-“Any time mentioned?”
-
-“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
-
-“Any person mentioned?”
-
-“No.”
-
-He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
-and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
-misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
-Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
- Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
-rolled away.
-
-That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
-two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
-he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
-that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
-personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
-their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
-strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
-in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
-
-It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
-reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
-preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
-But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
-resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
-so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
-the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
-scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
-(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
-of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
-streets, with a heavier heart.
-
-The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
-and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
-two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
-midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
-his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
-floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
-
-
-The end of the second book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
-
-
-
-I. In Secret
-
-
-The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
-England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
-ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
-horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
-unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
-but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
-these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
-citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
-of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
-inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
-turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
-hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
-Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
-Death.
-
-A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
-Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
-was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
-at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
-Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
-the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
-the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
-watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
-or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
-felt his freedom more completely gone.
-
-This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
-times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
-riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
-by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
-days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
-a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
-
-Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
-prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
-guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
-to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
-a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
-had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
-
-Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
-red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
-
-“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
-under an escort.”
-
-“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
-dispense with the escort.”
-
-“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
-of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”
-
-“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
-are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”
-
-“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.
-
-“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
-not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”
-
-“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
-and dress yourself, emigrant.”
-
-Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
-patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
-a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
-started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.
-
-The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
-cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
-side of him.
-
-The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
-his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
-wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
-faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
-and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
-change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
-between them and the capital.
-
-They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
-lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
-that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
-shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
-being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
-as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
-his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
-that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
-he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
-of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
-confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
-
-But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
-when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
-himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
-gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
-out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”
-
-He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
-resuming it as his safest place, said:
-
-“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
-will?”
-
-“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
-furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
-aristocrat!”
-
-The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
-bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
-be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”
-
-“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
-as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.
-
-Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
-yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
-the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
-voice heard:
-
-“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
-traitor.”
-
-“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
-is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”
-
-At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
-another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
-horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
-and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
-struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
-more was done.
-
-“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
-postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
-
-“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”
-
-“When passed?”
-
-“On the fourteenth.”
-
-“The day I left England!”
-
-“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
-others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
-condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
-your life was not your own.”
-
-“But there are no such decrees yet?”
-
-“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
-may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”
-
-They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
-then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
-wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
-unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
-lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
-cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
-would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
-circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
-up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
-Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
-into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
-wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
-that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
-the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
-way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
-
-Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
-closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
-
-“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
-in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
-
-Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
-speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
-in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
-imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.
-
-“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
-whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
-
-The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
-eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
-disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
-
-He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
-into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
-gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
-Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
-patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
-into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
-traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
-people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
-to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
-forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
-filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
-their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
-ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
-about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
-and women.
-
-When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
-things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
-who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
-escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
-to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
-turned and rode away without entering the city.
-
-He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
-and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
-drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
-waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
-light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
-the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
-uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
-officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
-
-“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
-paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
-
-“This is the man.”
-
-“Your age, Evremonde?”
-
-“Thirty-seven.”
-
-“Married, Evremonde?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Where married?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
-Force.”
-
-“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
-
-The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
-
-“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
-said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
-
-“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
-to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
-demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
-my right?”
-
-“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
-wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
-sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”
-
-Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
-him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
-them.
-
-“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
-guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
-Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
-
-“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
-Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”
-
-“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”
-
-The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
-with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
-and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”
-
-“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
-truth?”
-
-“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
-looking straight before him.
-
-“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
-sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
-little help?”
-
-“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
-
-“Will you answer me a single question?”
-
-“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”
-
-“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
-communication with the world outside?”
-
-“You will see.”
-
-“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
-presenting my case?”
-
-“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
-in worse prisons, before now.”
-
-“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”
-
-Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
-and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
-there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
-He, therefore, made haste to say:
-
-“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
-than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
-Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
-the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
-prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”
-
-“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
-my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
-I will do nothing for you.”
-
-Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
-was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
-how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
-streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
-their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
-otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
-more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
-going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
-passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
-audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
-family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
-it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
-foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
-Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
-watchfulness had completely isolated him.
-
-That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
-developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
-perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
-yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
-might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
-of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
-the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
-was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
-hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
-rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
-garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
-been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
-called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
-of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
-probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
-they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
-
-Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
-from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
-certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
-his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
-arrived at the prison of La Force.
-
-A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
-presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”
-
-“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
-bloated face.
-
-Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
-with his two fellow-patriots.
-
-“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
-“How many more!”
-
-The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
-replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
-responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
-the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
-conclusion.
-
-The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
-horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
-flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
-are ill cared for!
-
-“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
-if I was not already full to bursting!”
-
-He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
-awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
-fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
-either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
-subordinates.
-
-“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
-emigrant.”
-
-Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
-corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
-until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
-prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
-and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
-most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
-room.
-
-In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
-disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
-unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
-receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
-all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
-
-So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
-gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
-misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
-in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
-of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
-frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
-waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
-that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
-
-It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
-gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
-in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
-coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
-there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
-mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
-likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
-utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
-of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
-
-“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
-gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
-honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
-on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
-happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
-to ask your name and condition?”
-
-Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
-words as suitable as he could find.
-
-“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
-eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”
-
-“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
-so.”
-
-“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
-members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
-but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
-the society--in secret.”
-
-There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
-to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
-which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
-him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
-render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
-the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
-
-The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
-ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
-them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
-solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
-
-“Yours,” said the gaoler.
-
-“Why am I confined alone?”
-
-“How do I know!”
-
-“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”
-
-“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
-present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”
-
-There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
-the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
-walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
-the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
-was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
-a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
-gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
-dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
-with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
-is the first condition of the body after death.”
-
-“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
-paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
-counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
-drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
-shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
-paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
-“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
-them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
-embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
-hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
-through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
-made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
-a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
-his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
-and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
-still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
-knew, in the swell that rose above them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Grindstone
-
-
-Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
-in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
-the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
-a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
-troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
-mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
-metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
-of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
-besides the cook in question.
-
-Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
-sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
-willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
-indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
-house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
-things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
-precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
-of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
-Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
-drinking brandy in its state apartments.
-
-A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
-would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
-For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
-said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
-over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
-Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
-linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
-night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
-Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
-the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
-also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
-provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
-exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
-taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
-
-What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
-lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
-Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
-and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
-Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
-the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
-a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
-prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
-deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
-room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.
-
-He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
-he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
-derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
-building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
-that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
-his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
-was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
-of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
-great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
-open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
-to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
-or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
-objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
-opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
-he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.
-
-From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
-the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
-in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
-nature were going up to Heaven.
-
-“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
-dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
-who are in danger!”
-
-Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
-“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
-irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
-clash again, and all was quiet.
-
-The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
-uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
-awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
-go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
-opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
-amazement.
-
-Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
-that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
-seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
-force and power to it in this one passage of her life.
-
-“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
-matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
-What is it?”
-
-With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
-out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”
-
-“Your husband, Lucie?”
-
-“Charles.”
-
-“What of Charles?”
-
-“Here.
-
-“Here, in Paris?”
-
-“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
-collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
-us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”
-
-The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
-bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
-came pouring into the courtyard.
-
-“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
-don't touch the blind!”
-
-The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
-said, with a cool, bold smile:
-
-“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
-a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
-France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
-touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
-My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
-barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
-knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
-told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
-dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
-terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
-having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
-this fatal place. What prison is he in?”
-
-“La Force!”
-
-“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
-your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
-do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
-I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
-you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
-to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
-instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
-room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
-two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
-delay.”
-
-“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
-nothing else than this. I know you are true.”
-
-The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
-key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
-partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
-looked out with him into the courtyard.
-
-Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
-enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
-people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
-had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
-there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
-
-But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
-
-The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
-men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
-the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
-the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
-False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
-hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
-howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
-sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
-forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
-held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
-blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
-struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
-fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
-the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
-sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
-over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
-upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
-and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
-and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
-sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
-the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
-of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
-as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
-of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
-their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
-given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
-
-All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
-any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
-were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
-explanation in his friend's ashy face.
-
-“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
-the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
-say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
-have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
-may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”
-
-Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
-and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
-
-His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
-confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
-carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
-For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
-the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
-surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
-linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
-cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
-kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
-the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.
-
-He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
-and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
-assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
-her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
-surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
-watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
-
-Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
-clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
-bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
-charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
-the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
-
-Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
-irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
-“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
-sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
-and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”
-
-Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
-Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
-from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
-besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
-to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
-the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
-Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
-the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
-climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
-dainty cushions.
-
-The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
-and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
-alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
-never given, and would never take away.
-
-
-
-
-III. The Shadow
-
-
-One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
-Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
-imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
-the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
-for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
-he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
-man of business.
-
-At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
-the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
-the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
-same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
-most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
-its dangerous workings.
-
-Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
-tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
-that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
-Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
-this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
-he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
-went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
-in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
-of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
-
-To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
-giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
-He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
-considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
-A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
-and heavily the day lagged on with him.
-
-It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
-was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
-do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
-man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
-addressed him by his name.
-
-“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”
-
-He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
-to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
-emphasis, the words:
-
-“Do you know me?”
-
-“I have seen you somewhere.”
-
-“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”
-
-Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
-Manette?”
-
-“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”
-
-“And what says he? What does he send me?”
-
-Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
-words in the Doctor's writing:
-
- “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
- I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
- from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.”
-
-It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
-
-“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
-this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”
-
-“Yes,” returned Defarge.
-
-Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
-way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
-courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
-
-“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
-the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
-
-“It is she,” observed her husband.
-
-“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
-they moved.
-
-“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
-It is for their safety.”
-
-Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
-at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
-The Vengeance.
-
-They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
-ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
-and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
-tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
-delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
-the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
-
- “DEAREST,--Take courage. I am well, and your father has
- influence around me. You cannot answer this.
- Kiss our child for me.”
-
-That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
-it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
-hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
-action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
-to its knitting again.
-
-There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
-the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
-neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
-eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
-
-“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
-risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
-trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
-to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
-may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
-reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
-upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”
-
-Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
-gruff sound of acquiescence.
-
-“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
-propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
-good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
-French.”
-
-The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
-match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
-appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
-whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
-_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
-Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
-
-“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
-first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
-were the finger of Fate.
-
-“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
-daughter, and only child.”
-
-The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
-threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
-kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
-shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
-threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.
-
-“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
-may go.”
-
-But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
-presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
-she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:
-
-“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
-help me to see him if you can?”
-
-“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
-down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
-who is my business here.”
-
-“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
-will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
-afraid of you than of these others.”
-
-Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
-Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
-collected his face into a sterner expression.
-
-“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
-Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
-influence?”
-
-“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
-breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
-much influence around him.”
-
-“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”
-
-“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
-have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
-my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
-of me. As a wife and mother!”
-
-Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
-turning to her friend The Vengeance:
-
-“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
-as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
-known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
-often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
-themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
-sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”
-
-“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.
-
-“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
-again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
-and mother would be much to us now?”
-
-She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
-went last, and closed the door.
-
-“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
-courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
-late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”
-
-“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
-shadow on me and on all my hopes.”
-
-“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
-little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”
-
-But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
-for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Calm in Storm
-
-
-Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
-absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
-kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
-not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
-know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
-ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
-darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
-tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
-the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
-some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
-which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
-scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
-found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
-brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
-to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
-to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
-had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
-years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
-body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
-man was Defarge.
-
-That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
-that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
-to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
-dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
-and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
-a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
-to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
-examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
-the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
-to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
-the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
-the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
-inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
-was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
-Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
-assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
-delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
-often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
-had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
-
-The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
-intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
-saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
-those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
-been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
-thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
-the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
-in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
-of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
-awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
-with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
-carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
-anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
-with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
-
-As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
-his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
-such dread experiences would revive the old danger.
-
-But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
-at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
-felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
-he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
-could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
-“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
-As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
-helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
-of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
-the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
-of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
-clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
-had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
-
-Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
-have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
-in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
-of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
-personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
-of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
-that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
-general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
-messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
-sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
-not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
-plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
-known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.
-
-This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
-sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
-Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
-but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
-time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
-and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
-Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
-that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
-ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
-that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
-trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
-and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
-affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
-rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
-curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
-natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
-couldn't be in better hands.”
-
-But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
-Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
-the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
-era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
-against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
-great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
-against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
-of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
-had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
-alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
-the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
-and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
-fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
-What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
-One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
-and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!
-
-There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
-measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
-time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
-count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
-of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
-unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
-head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
-head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
-widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
-
-And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
-all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
-revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
-revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
-which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
-any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
-with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
-these things became the established order and nature of appointed
-things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
-Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
-the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
-sharp female called La Guillotine.
-
-It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
-it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
-peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
-shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
-and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
-human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
-from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
-believed in where the Cross was denied.
-
-It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
-were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
-Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
-the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
-good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
-dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
-The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
-functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
-namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
-day.
-
-Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
-with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
-end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
-current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
-away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
-months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
-wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
-that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
-violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
-under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
-terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
-that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
-in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
-victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
-appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
-other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
-he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
-a Spirit moving among mortals.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wood-Sawyer
-
-
-One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
-sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
-husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
-tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
-women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
-old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
-daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
-and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
-Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
-bestow, O Guillotine!
-
-If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
-had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
-despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
-the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
-the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
-truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
-will always be.
-
-As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
-had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
-household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
-its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
-as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
-slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
-that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
-return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
-solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
-unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
-outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
-
-She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
-mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
-attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
-and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
-thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
-night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
-repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
-was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
-without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”
-
-They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
-father said to her, on coming home one evening:
-
-“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
-sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
-it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
-in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
-show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
-if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”
-
-“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”
-
-From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
-clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
-When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
-went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
-single day.
-
-It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
-of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
-end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
-her.
-
-“Good day, citizeness.”
-
-“Good day, citizen.”
-
-This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
-established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
-but, was now law for everybody.
-
-“Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“You see me, citizen!”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
-had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
-at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
-bars, peeped through them jocosely.
-
-“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.
-
-Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
-appeared.
-
-“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
-
-“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
-
-“Yes, dearest.”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
-call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
-comes!”
-
-The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
-
-“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
-Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
-Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
-family!”
-
-Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
-impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
-his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
-first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
-
-He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
-him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
-up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
-with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
-not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
-briskly fall to his sawing again.
-
-In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
-spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
-in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
-this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
-Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
-five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
-for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
-see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
-waited out the day, seven days a week.
-
-These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
-father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
-afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
-rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
-decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
-also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
-(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
-
-The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
-surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
-somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
-with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
-and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
-saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
-female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
-was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
-
-But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
-and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
-afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
-prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
-The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
-they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
-than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
-keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
-Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
-together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
-mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
-filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
-apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
-advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
-another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
-in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
-linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
-and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
-all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
-reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
-again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
-of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
-up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
-as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
-innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
-a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
-heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
-warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
-bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
-delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
-the disjointed time.
-
-This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
-bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
-fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
-
-“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
-had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
-
-“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
-frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”
-
-“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
-husband, and the mercies of these people--”
-
-“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
-the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
-kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
-
-“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
-
-“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
-
-“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
-“no.”
-
-A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
- from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
-Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
-
-“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
-and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
-“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-“For to-morrow!”
-
-“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
-to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
-before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
-that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
-Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”
-
-She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
-
-“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
-be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
-protection. I must see Lorry.”
-
-He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
-both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
-away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
-
-“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
-
-The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
-and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
-and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
-better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
-hold his peace.
-
-A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
-the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
-Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
-deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
-National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
-Fraternity, or Death!
-
-Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
-chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
-agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
-he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
-turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
-he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
-
-
-
-
-VI. Triumph
-
-
-The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
-Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
-read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
-standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
-inside there!”
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
-
-So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
-
-When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
-for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
-Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
-hundreds pass away so.
-
-His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
-to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
-list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
-names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
-summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
-guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
-where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
-arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
-creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
-scaffold.
-
-There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
-soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
-were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
-concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
-there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
-refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
-common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
-who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
-insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
-time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
-or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
-brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
-boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
-seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
-disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
-like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
-them.
-
-The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
-vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
-put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
-were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.
-
-His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
-and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
-at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
-usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
-honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
-without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
-spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
-anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
-the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
-knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
-knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
-her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
-he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
-remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
-his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
-in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
-himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
-be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
-the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
-in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
-Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
-wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
-Carmagnole.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
-as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
-which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
-decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
-the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
-
-“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”
-
-The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
-prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
-England?
-
-Undoubtedly it was.
-
-Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
-
-Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
-
-Why not? the President desired to know.
-
-Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
-to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
-his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
-acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
-England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
-
-What proof had he of this?
-
-He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
-Alexandre Manette.
-
-But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
-
-True, but not an English woman.
-
-A citizeness of France?
-
-Yes. By birth.
-
-Her name and family?
-
-“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
-sits there.”
-
-This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
-of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
-the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
-countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
-if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
-
-On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
-according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
-counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
-inch of his road.
-
-The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
-sooner?
-
-He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
-of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
-he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
-He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
-a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
-absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
-testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
-in the eyes of the Republic?
-
-The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
-bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
- until they left off, of their own will.
-
-The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
-that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
-to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
-but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
-the President.
-
-The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
-it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
-and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
-Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
-pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
-enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
-overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
-of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
-had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
-declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
-answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
-called Darnay.
-
-Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
-and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
-proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
-release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
-England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
-their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
-government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
-the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
-circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
-straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
-populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
-Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
-had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
-account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
-they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
-receive them.
-
-At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
-set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
-favour, and the President declared him free.
-
-Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
-sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
-generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
-their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
-these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
-to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
-was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
-at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
-prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
-his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
-exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
-people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
-the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
-streets.
-
-His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
-rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
-together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
-assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
-itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
-him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
-hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
-of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
-Republic!”
-
-The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
-for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
-crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
-Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
-concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
-turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
-which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
-shore.
-
-They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
-taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
-Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
-had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
-even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
-on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
-and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
-he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
-was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
-
-In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
-him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
-prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
-they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
-him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
-had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
-feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
-
-As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
-face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
-together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
-rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
-Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
-crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
-overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
-and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
-them away.
-
-After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
-before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
-breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
-after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
-his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
-lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
-rooms.
-
-“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
-
-“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
-prayed to Him.”
-
-They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
-his arms, he said to her:
-
-“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
-could have done what he has done for me.”
-
-She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
-head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
-had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
-strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
-tremble so. I have saved him.”
-
-
-
-
-VII. A Knock at the Door
-
-
-“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
-often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
-vague but heavy fear was upon her.
-
-All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
-revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
-vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
-many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
-her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
-heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
-The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
-the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
-them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
-his real presence and trembled more.
-
-Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
-woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
-no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
-he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
-them all lean upon him.
-
-Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
-the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
-because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
-had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
-the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
-partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
-citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
-occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
-Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
-night.
-
-It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
-Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
-house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
-of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
-Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
-below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
-himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
-employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
-Darnay.
-
-In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
-harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
-in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
-were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
-shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
-possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
-
-For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
-office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
-basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
-lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
-such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
-association with a French family, might have known as much of their
-language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
-direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
-pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
-was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
-introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
-the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
-of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
-made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
-one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
-
-“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
-“if you are ready, I am.”
-
-Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
-all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
-
-“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
-have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
-these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
-
-“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
- retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”
-
-“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
-Nick's.”
-
-“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
-meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
-and Mischief.”
-
-“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.
-
-“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
-among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
-smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
-streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
-Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
-pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
-May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”
-
-“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.
-
-“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
-that,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
-
-“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
-short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
-Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
-as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
-tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
-after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
-
-“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
-had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
-“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
-way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
-with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
-prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
-
-“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
-
-“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
-glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
-must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
-fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
-you move, Ladybird!”
-
-They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
-child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
-Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
-a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
-sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
-in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
-a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
-a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
-quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
-
-“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
-
-“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
-on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
-least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”
-
-“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
-and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
-
-“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
-
-As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
-
-“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
-
-“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
-shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
-to the door.”
-
-He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
-and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
-men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
-
-“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
-
-“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
-
-“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
-Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”
-
-The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
-to him.
-
-“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”
-
-“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
-know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
-stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
-moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
-the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
-woollen shirt, said:
-
-“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
-
-“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
-
-“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
-
-He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
-after a pause:
-
-“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
-the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
-had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
-
-The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
-
-“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
-
-“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
-more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
-a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
-The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”
-
-“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”
-
-“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
-Antoine here.”
-
-The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
-feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
-
-“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
-the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”
-
-“What other?”
-
-“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
-answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
-
-
-
-
-VIII. A Hand at Cards
-
-
-Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
-way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
-Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
-she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
-both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
-passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
-turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
-was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
-lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
-stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
-Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
-undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
-grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
-
-Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
-for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
-After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
-once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
-took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
-description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
-not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
-opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
-attended by her cavalier.
-
-Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
-playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
-bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
-the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
-resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
-popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
-like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
-the counter, and showed what they wanted.
-
-As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
-corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
-sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
-her hands.
-
-In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
-assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
-likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
-saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
-the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
-evidently English.
-
-What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
-voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
-Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
-ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
-not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
-Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
-account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.
-
-“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
-speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
-English.
-
-“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
-“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
-do I find you here!”
-
-“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
-man, in a furtive, frightened way.
-
-“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
-been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
-
-“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
-want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”
-
-Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
-affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”
-
-“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”
-
-Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
-word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
-through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
-so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
-of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
-language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
-pursuits.
-
-“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
-want?”
-
-“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
-from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
-affection.”
-
-“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
-lips with his own. “Now are you content?”
-
-Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
-
-“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
-surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
-you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
-do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
-am an official.”
-
-“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
-tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
-greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
-such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
-his--”
-
-“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
-the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
-as I am getting on!”
-
-“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
-rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
-loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
-and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
-detain you no longer.”
-
-Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
-culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
-ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
-her money and left her!
-
-He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
-condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
-merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
-all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
-hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
-question:
-
-“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
-or Solomon John?”
-
-The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
-previously uttered a word.
-
-“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
-was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
-calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
-you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
-name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
-was, over the water.”
-
-“No?”
-
-“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
-at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
-yourself, was you called at that time?”
-
-“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
-
-“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
-
-The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
-him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
-elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
-
-“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
-surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
-elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
-myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
-better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
-was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”
-
-Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
-who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
-
-“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
-of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
-an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
-faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
-a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
-the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
-direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
-sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
-conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
-nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
-to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“What purpose?” the spy asked.
-
-“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
-street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
-company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”
-
-“Under a threat?”
-
-“Oh! Did I say that?”
-
-“Then, why should I go there?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”
-
-“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
-
-“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”
-
-Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
-quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
-and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
-made the most of it.
-
-“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
-sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
-
-“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
-But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
-pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
-satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”
-
-“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”
-
-“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
-own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
-at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
-knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
-ready? Come then!”
-
-Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
-remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
-in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
-purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
-contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
-too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
-her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
-heed what she observed.
-
-They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
-Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
-Pross, walked at his side.
-
-Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
-little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
-picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
-into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
-ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
-which he saw a stranger.
-
-“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
-with the name--and with the face.”
-
-“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
-coolly. “Pray sit down.”
-
-As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
-by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
-immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
-look of abhorrence.
-
-“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
-brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
-relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”
-
-Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
-tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
-to return to him!”
-
-“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Just now, if at all.”
-
-“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
-have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
-over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
-messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
-earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
-of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
-might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
-silently attentive.
-
-“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
-Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
-would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”
-
-“Yes; I believe so.”
-
-“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
-to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
-power to prevent this arrest.”
-
-“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
-identified he is with his son-in-law.”
-
-“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
-chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.
-
-“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
-are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
-will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
-carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
-stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
-in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
-Barsad.”
-
-“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
-
-“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
-brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
-
-It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
-glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
-
-“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
-over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
-committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
-so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
-is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
-Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
-That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
-French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
-English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
-card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
-Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
-spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
-the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
-difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
-hand, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
-
-“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
-Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
-hurry.”
-
-He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
-drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
-into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
-poured out and drank another glassful.
-
-“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
-
-It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
-in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
-employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
-there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
-vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
-date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
-France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
-there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
-knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
-Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
-such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
-release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
-familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
-Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
-with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
-talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
-He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
-again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
-guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
-he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
-he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
-his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
-terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
-grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
-that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
-proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
-his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
-terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
-the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
-
-“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
-composure. “Do you play?”
-
-“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
-Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
-put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
-under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
-of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
-considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
-somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
-himself as to make himself one?”
-
-“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
-and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
-
-“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
-hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”
-
-“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
-relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“You think not, sir?”
-
-“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
-
-The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
-ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
-received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
-mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
-failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
-of contemplating cards:
-
-“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
-have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
-fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
-who was he?”
-
-“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
-
-“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
-at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”
-
-“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
-
-“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
-way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
-the face.”
-
-“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.
-
-“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
-glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
-French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”
-
-“Provincial,” said the spy.
-
-“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
-light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
-had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”
-
-“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
-aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
-me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
-distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
-attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
-of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
-multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
-to lay him in his coffin.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
-goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
-to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
-risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
-
-“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
-how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
-lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
-carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
-it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
-it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
-Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
-violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
-crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
-
-Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
-the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
-
-“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
-iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Who took him out of it?”
-
-Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”
-
-“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
-I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
-
-The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
-unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.
-
-“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
-that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
-take in. Me and two more knows it.”
-
-“How do you know it?”
-
-“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
-old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
-I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
-
-Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
-this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
-explain himself.
-
-“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
-ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
-wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
-in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
-throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
-quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”
-
-“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
-Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
-you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
-aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
-the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
-A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
-card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”
-
-“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
-with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
-of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
-he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
-man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
-
-“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
-Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
-that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
-be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
-liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
-guinea.”
-
-The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
-with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
-can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
-Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
-office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
-life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
-I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
-here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
-way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
-me?”
-
-“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”
-
-“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
- said the spy, firmly.
-
-“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
-Conciergerie?”
-
-“I am sometimes.”
-
-“You can be when you choose?”
-
-“I can pass in and out when I choose.”
-
-Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
-upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
-said, rising:
-
-“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
-the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
-into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Game Made
-
-
-While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
-dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
-at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
-manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
-leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
-and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
-questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
-his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
-hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
-infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
-of him.
-
-“What have you been, besides a messenger?”
-
-After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
-Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
-character.”
-
-“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
-at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
-as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
-description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
-get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
-Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
-
-“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
-yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
-would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
-is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
-it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
-to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
-up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
-fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
-yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
-their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
-out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
-Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
-goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
-in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
-a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
-ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
-it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
-and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
-undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
-with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
-much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
-prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
-all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
-once in--even if it wos so.”
-
-“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
-the sight of you.”
-
-“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
-“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”
-
-“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
-further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
-would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
-that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
-be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
-your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
-wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
-you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
-his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
-let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
-for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
-a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
-That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
-arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
-discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
-see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
-without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
-to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
-things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
-fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
-cause when I might have kep' it back.”
-
-“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
-that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
-action--not in words. I want no more words.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
-returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
-arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
-
-He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
-were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
-
-“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
-to him, once.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
-
-“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
-to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
-worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
-weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”
-
-“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
-Tribunal, will not save him.”
-
-“I never said it would.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
-darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
-weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
-and his tears fell.
-
-“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
-voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
-father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
-sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
-however.”
-
-Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
-was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
-that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
-unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
-
-“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
-interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
-him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
-to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
-see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
-evidently understood it.
-
-“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
-only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
-I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
-little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
-You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”
-
-“I am going now, directly.”
-
-“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
-on you. How does she look?”
-
-“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
-
-“Ah!”
-
-It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
-attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
-fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
-passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
-wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
-flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
-and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
-light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
-all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
-sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
-his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
-broken under the weight of his foot.
-
-“I forgot it,” he said.
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
-wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
-the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
-reminded of that expression.
-
-“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
-to him.
-
-“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
-unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
-have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
-my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”
-
-They were both silent.
-
-“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.
-
-“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”
-
-“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
-trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
-
-“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
-may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”
-
-“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
-you when you leave it empty!”
-
-“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
-is nobody to weep for me.”
-
-“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”
-
-“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”
-
-“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”
-
-“Surely, surely.”
-
-“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
-'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
-respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
-regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
-your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
-not?”
-
-“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”
-
-Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
-few moments, said:
-
-“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
-days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
-
-Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
-
-“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
-closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
-nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
-preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
-that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
-and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
-so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
-
-“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
-you are the better for it?”
-
-“I hope so.”
-
-Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
-his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
-are young.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
-age. Enough of me.”
-
-“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”
-
-“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
-habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
-uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”
-
-“Yes, unhappily.”
-
-“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
-place for me. Take my arm, sir.”
-
-Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
-few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
-there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
-again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
-the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
-“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
-her steps.”
-
-It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
-where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
-closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
-
-“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
-man eyed him inquisitively.
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“How goes the Republic?”
-
-“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
-to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
-exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
-
-“Do you often go to see him--”
-
-“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
-citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
-than two pipes. Word of honour!”
-
-As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
-how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
-to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
-
-“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
-English dress?”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
-
-“You speak like a Frenchman.”
-
-“I am an old student here.”
-
-“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
-him. “And take a pipe with you!”
-
-Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
-the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
-of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
-the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
-for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
-terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
-his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
-thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
-
-Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
-counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
-whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”
-
-Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
-
-“For you, citizen?”
-
-“For me.”
-
-“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
-consequences of mixing them?”
-
-“Perfectly.”
-
-Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
-one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
-and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
-glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”
-
-It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
-aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
-negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
-had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
-his road and saw its end.
-
-Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
-youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
-mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
-read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
-streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
-on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
-he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
-whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
-rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
-and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
-and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
-brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
-might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
-went on.
-
-With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
-going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
-surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
-were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
-of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
-profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
-the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
-along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
-material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
-the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
-interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
-short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
-the lighter streets.
-
-Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
-suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
-shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
-people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
-one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
-for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
-and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
-
-“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
-were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
-and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
-heard them always.
-
-The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
-water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
-picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
-of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
-sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
-and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
-Death's dominion.
-
-But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
-of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
-And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
-appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
-sparkled under it.
-
-The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
-friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
-houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
-bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
-longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
-stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”
-
-A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
-glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
-in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
-for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
-ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
-where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
-little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
-himself, went out to the place of trial.
-
-The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
-away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
-Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
-sitting beside her father.
-
-When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
-sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
-tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
-blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
-there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
-Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
-
-Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
-ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
-been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
-first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
-Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
-
-Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
-republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
-after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
-his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
-gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
-cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
-Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
-
-Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
-No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
-murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
-in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
-another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
-retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
-Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
-one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
-privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
-called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
-
-To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
-
-The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
-
-“Openly, President.”
-
-“By whom?”
-
-“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
-
-A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
-Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
-
-“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
-a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
-daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
-and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
-of my child!”
-
-“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
-the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
-to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
-Republic.”
-
-Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
-with warmth resumed.
-
-“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
-herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
-to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
-
-Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
-his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
-closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
-and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
-
-Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
-being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
-his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
-and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
-This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
-
-“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
-best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
-there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
-it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”
-
-It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
-thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
-Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
- wherein she was likewise much commended.
-
-“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
-citizen.”
-
-“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
-bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
-“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
-known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
-knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
-when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
-when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
-the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
-gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
-stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
-that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
-of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
-I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
-the President.”
-
-“Let it be read.”
-
-In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
-lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
-solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
-reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
-never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
-intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
-follows.
-
-
-
-
-X. The Substance of the Shadow
-
-
-“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
-afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
-cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
-it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
-in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
-place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
-and my sorrows are dust.
-
-“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
-difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
-with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
-has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
-noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
-solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
-mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
-truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
-be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
-
-“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
-twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
-part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
-at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
-School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
-fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
-might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
-voice called to the driver to stop.
-
-“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
-and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
-was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
-door and alight before I came up with it.
-
-“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
-conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
-I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
-younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
-and (as far as I could see) face too.
-
-“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
-physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
-has made a rising reputation in Paris?'
-
-“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
-graciously.'
-
-“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
-so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
-probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
-overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'
-
-“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
-were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
-They were armed. I was not.
-
-“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
-the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
-which I am summoned.'
-
-“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
-your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
-our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
-yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
-enter the carriage?'
-
-“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
-entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
-carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
-
-“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
-it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
-place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
-the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
-paper in its hiding-place.
-
- *****
-
-“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
-emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
-Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
-when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
-stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
-a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
-overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
-answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
-the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
-
-“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
-for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
-other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
-with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
-alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
-
-“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
-locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
-relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
-conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
-ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
-lying on a bed.
-
-“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
-past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
-her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
-all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
-scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
-and the letter E.
-
-“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
-for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
-edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
-in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
-her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
-corner caught my sight.
-
-“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
-and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
-wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
-words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
-twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
-to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
-would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
-would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
-order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
-pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
-
-“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'
-
-“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
-younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
-was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'
-
-“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
-
-“'A brother.'
-
-“'I do not address her brother?'
-
-“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'
-
-“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'
-
-“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'
-
-“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
-useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
-to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
-are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
-
-“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
-a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
-the table.
-
- *****
-
-“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
-lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
-poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
-
-“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.
-
-“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
-more.
-
-“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
-efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
-after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
-sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
-in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
-a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
-furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
-old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
-sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
-succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
-counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
-not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
-them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
-in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
-soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
-figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
-regular.
-
-“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
-the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
-before the elder said:
-
-“'There is another patient.'
-
-“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'
-
-“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
-
- *****
-
-“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
-was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
-to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
-there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
-the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
-pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
-and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
-this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
-captivity, as I saw them all that night.
-
-“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
-handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
-He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
-breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
-where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
-that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
-
-“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'
-
-“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
-
-“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
-The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
-before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
-without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
-brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
-ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
-as if he were a fellow-creature.
-
-“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.
-
-“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
-and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'
-
-“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
-answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
-have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
-have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
-vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
-the boy, or about his fate.
-
-“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
-slowly moved to me.
-
-“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
-proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
-we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'
-
-“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
-distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
-
-“I said, 'I have seen her.'
-
-“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
-Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
-have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
-so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
-tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
-The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
-
-“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
-to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
-
-“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
-are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
-work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
-to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
-for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
-plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
-ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
-people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
-and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
-dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
-most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
-race die out!'
-
-“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
-like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
-somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
-dying boy.
-
-“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
-poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
-him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
-been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
-her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
-us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
-hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
-then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
-willing?'
-
-“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
-looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
-opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
-Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
-trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
-
-“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
-harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
-drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
-grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
-may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
-night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
-not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
-could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
-bell, and died on her bosom.'
-
-“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
-tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
-he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
-wound.
-
-“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
-brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
-brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
-it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
-for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
-tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
-that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
-beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
-_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
-in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
-somewhere here?'
-
-“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
-him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
-over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
-
-“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
-dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
-at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
-make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
-that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
-at me with all his skill for his life.'
-
-“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
-a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
-another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
-
-“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
-
-“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
-referred to the brother.
-
-“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
-man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
-
-“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
-moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
-me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
-
-“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
-his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
-answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
-answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
-I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
-I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
-separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
-it.'
-
-“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
-forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
-finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
-down dead.
-
- *****
-
-“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
-in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
-for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
-grave.
-
-“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
-the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
-quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
-of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
-One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
-twelve. Hush!'
-
-“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
-come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
-falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
-by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
-
-“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
-fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
-compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
-her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
-a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
-had of her.
-
-“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
-elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
-
-“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
-
-“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
-at her with some curiosity.
-
-“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
-despair.'
-
-“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
-chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
-subdued voice,
-
-“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
-recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
-and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
-of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
-and not spoken of.'
-
-“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
-
-“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
-
-“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
-are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
-was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
-
-“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
-pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
-resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
-
- *****
-
-“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
-fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
-darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
-failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
-was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
-
-“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
-syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
-asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
-was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
-head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
-
-“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
-brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
-then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
-woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
-the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
-that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
-if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.
-
-“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
-brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
-peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
-of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
-to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
-brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
-for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
-me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
-in the mind of the elder, too.
-
-“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
-answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
-with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
-all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
-
-“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
-away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
-their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
-
-“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
-
-“'She is dead,' said I.
-
-“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
-
-“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
-gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
-the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
-nothing.
-
-“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
-
-“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
-them, and we parted without another word on either side.
-
- *****
-
-“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
-have written with this gaunt hand.
-
-“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
-little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
-considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
-to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
-summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
-circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
-of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
-heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
-profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
-in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
-I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
-compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
-
-“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
-night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
-It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
-completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
-
- *****
-
-“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
-so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
-dreadful.
-
-“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
-life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
-wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
-boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
-on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
-had seen that nobleman very lately.
-
-“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
-conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
-know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
-in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
-share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
-was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
-in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
-Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
-
-“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
-her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
-but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
-inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
-that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
-wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
-
- *****
-
-“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
-yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
-
-“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
-could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
-was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
-husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
-pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
-
-“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
-all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
-inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
-atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
-I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
-jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
-compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
-the sister can be discovered.'
-
-“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
-sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
-bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
-went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
-
-“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
-I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
-trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
-
-“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
-a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
-my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
-into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
-My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
-the gate, standing silent behind him.
-
-“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
-he had a coach in waiting.
-
-“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
-house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
-my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
-corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
-his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
-of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
-Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
-grave.
-
-“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
-brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
-my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
-dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
-now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
-they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
-last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
-night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
-when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
-and to earth.”
-
-A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
-sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
-blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
-and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
-
-Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
-how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
-Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
-time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
-anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
-The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
-sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
-
-And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
-well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
-of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
-the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
-self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
-said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
-physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
-rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
-a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
-orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
-human sympathy.
-
-“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
-smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”
-
-At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
-roar.
-
-Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
-of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
-Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
-
-
-
-
-XI. Dusk
-
-
-The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
-the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
-sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
-she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
-it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
-
-The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
-the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
-emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
-stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
-but love and consolation.
-
-“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
-you would have so much compassion for us!”
-
-There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
-taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
-show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
-him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
-passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
-leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
-
-“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
-shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
-
-They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
-
-“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
-for me. A parting blessing for our child.”
-
-“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
-you.”
-
-“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
-“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
-by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
-will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”
-
-Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
-of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
-
-“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
-to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
-you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
-know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
-her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
-duty. Heaven be with you!”
-
-Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
-and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
-
-“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
-together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
-discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
-near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
-nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
-bless you!”
-
-As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
-with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
-with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
-smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
-lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
-feet.
-
-Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
-Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
-with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
-Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
-flush of pride in it.
-
-“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”
-
-He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
-coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
-beside the driver.
-
-When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
-many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
-the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
-the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
-her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
-
-“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
-better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
-
-“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
-throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
-you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
-save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
-love her, bear to see her so?”
-
-He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
-put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
-
-“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
-
-It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
-with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
-him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
-handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
-
-When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
-and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
-
-“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
-be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
-you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
-
-“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
-strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
-answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
-
-“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
-and short, but try.”
-
-“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
-
-“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
-now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
-great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
-it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
-were not.”
-
-“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
-straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
-write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
-one will be accessible until dark.”
-
-“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
-forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
-speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
-these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”
-
-“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
-this.”
-
-“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
-go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
-our friend or from yourself?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“May you prosper!”
-
-Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
-shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
-
-“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
-
-“Nor have I.”
-
-“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
-him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
-to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
-court.”
-
-“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
-
-Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
-
-“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
-Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
-consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
-thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
-
-“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
-But he will perish; there is no real hope.”
-
-“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.
-
-And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-XII. Darkness
-
-
-Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
-Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
-do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
-these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
-precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
-Let me think it out!”
-
-Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
-turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
-in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
-confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
-should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
-towards Saint Antoine.
-
-Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
-the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
-well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
-its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
-at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
-first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
-had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
-dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
-done with it.
-
-It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
-into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
-stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
-the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
-his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.
-
-There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
-restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
-the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
-Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
-a regular member of the establishment.
-
-As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
-French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
-glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
-to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
-
-He repeated what he had already said.
-
-“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
-eyebrows.
-
-After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
-slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
-accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”
-
-Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
-took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
-meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”
-
-Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
-
-“How?”
-
-“Good evening.”
-
-“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
-drink to the Republic.”
-
-Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
- Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
-pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
- The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
-are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
-to-morrow!”
-
-Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
-forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
-their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
-of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
-disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
-their conversation.
-
-“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
-is great force in that. Why stop?”
-
-“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
-the question is still where?”
-
-“At extermination,” said madame.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
-approved.
-
-“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
-troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
-suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
-the paper was read.”
-
-“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
-“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
-face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”
-
-“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
-“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
-
-“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
-his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
-have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
-I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
-finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
-his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
-if the axe had dropped.
-
-“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.
-
-“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
-
-“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
-depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
-man even now.”
-
-“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
-would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”
-
-“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
-too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
-tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
-doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.
-
-“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
-this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
-night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
-by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge.
-
-“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
-burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
-those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
-that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge again.
-
-“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
-hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
-among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
-by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
-family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
-was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
-was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
-those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
-descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.
-
-“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
-tell me.”
-
-Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
-of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
-her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
-a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
-only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
-the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”
-
-Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
-paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
-a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
-took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
-The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
-be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
-deep.
-
-But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
-prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
-himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
-walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
-until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
-keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
-banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
-mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
-more than five hours gone: where could he be?
-
-Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
-he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
-should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
-In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
-
-He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
-did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
-brought none. Where could he be?
-
-They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
-weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
-the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
-lost.
-
-Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
-time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
-them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
-
-“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”
-
-His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
-straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
-
-“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
-can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
-finish those shoes.”
-
-They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
-
-“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
-work. Give me my work.”
-
-Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
-ground, like a distracted child.
-
-“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
-cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
-not done to-night?”
-
-Lost, utterly lost!
-
-It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
-that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
-soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
-have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
-embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
-time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
-the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
-
-Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
-of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
-daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
-too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
-one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
-
-“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
-to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
-me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
-exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”
-
-“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”
-
-The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
-rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
-they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
-night.
-
-Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
-feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
-carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
-took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
-at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
-exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”
-
-“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
-
-“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
-his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
-enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
-an Englishman?”
-
-Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
-
-“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
-remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
-Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
-and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
-frontier! You see?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
-yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
-up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
-within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
-good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
-think, will be.”
-
-“They are not in danger?”
-
-“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
-Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
-woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
-colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
-confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
-is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
-Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
-name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
-the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
-involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
-both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
-will save them all.”
-
-“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”
-
-“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
-on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
-until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
-more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
-mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
-father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
-inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
-strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”
-
-“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
-the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
-of this distress.”
-
-“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
-as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
-completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
-horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
-afternoon.”
-
-“It shall be done!”
-
-His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
-flame, and was as quick as youth.
-
-“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
-Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
-and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
-beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
-on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
-the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
-her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
-depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
-father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
-
-“I am sure of it.”
-
-“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
-the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
-The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
-
-“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”
-
-“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
-reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
-then for England!”
-
-“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
-hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
-and ardent man at my side.”
-
-“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
-influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
-another.”
-
-“Nothing, Carton.”
-
-“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
-any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
-inevitably be sacrificed.”
-
-“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”
-
-“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”
-
-Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
-put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
-helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
-as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
-where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
-to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
-courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
-the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
-it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
-there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
-her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
-Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. Fifty-two
-
-
-In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
-their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
-to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
-everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
-were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
-the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
-apart.
-
-Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
-whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
-poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
-in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
-and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
-intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
-without distinction.
-
-Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
-flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
-of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
-fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
-that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
-avail him nothing.
-
-Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
-before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
-was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
-and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
-when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
-this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
-a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
-resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
-child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
-selfish thing.
-
-But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
-was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
-road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
-him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
-enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
-by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
-thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
-
-Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
-travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
-of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
-prison lamps should be extinguished.
-
-He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
-of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
-and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
-responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
-already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
-he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
-her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
-had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
-for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
-become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
-to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
-that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
-preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
-he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
-mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
-discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
-besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
-her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
-of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
-reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
-sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
-blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
-dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
-father.
-
-To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
-father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
-he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
-despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
-tending.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
-That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
-attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
-full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
-
-He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
-he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
-
-But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
-forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
-nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
-heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
-he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
-suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
-was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
-sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
-flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
-
-Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
-were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
-meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
-thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
-
-He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
-high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
-stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
-red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
-or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
-directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
-times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
-fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
-to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
-few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
-the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
-
-The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
-numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
-ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
-contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
-him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
-repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
-He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
-himself and for them.
-
-Twelve gone for ever.
-
-He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
-be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
-and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
-before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
-interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
-
-Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
-different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
-he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
-measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
-recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
-turned to walk again.
-
-Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
-
-The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
-as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
-me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
-no time!”
-
-The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
-face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
-features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
-
-There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
-first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
-imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
-hand, and it was his real grasp.
-
-“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
-
-“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
-are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”
-
-“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
-here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
-wife, dear Darnay.”
-
-The prisoner wrung his hand.
-
-“I bring you a request from her.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
-in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
-remember.”
-
-The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
-
-“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
-no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
-wear, and draw on these of mine.”
-
-There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
-Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
-him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
-
-“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
-them. Quick!”
-
-“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
-will only die with me. It is madness.”
-
-“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
-to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
-that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
-it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
-this of mine!”
-
-With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
-that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
-The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
-
-“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
-can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
-not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
-
-“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
-refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
-steady enough to write?”
-
-“It was when you came in.”
-
-“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”
-
-Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
-Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
-
-“Write exactly as I speak.”
-
-“To whom do I address it?”
-
-“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.
-
-“Do I date it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
-his hand in his breast, looked down.
-
-“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
-between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
-You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”
-
-He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
-up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
-something.
-
-“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.
-
-“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”
-
-“No; I am not armed.”
-
-“What is it in your hand?”
-
-“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
-dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
-them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
-words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
-moved down close to the writer's face.
-
-The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
-him vacantly.
-
-“What vapour is that?” he asked.
-
-“Vapour?”
-
-“Something that crossed me?”
-
-“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
-and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
-
-As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
-prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
-with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
-hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
-
-“Hurry, hurry!”
-
-The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
-
-“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
-softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
-If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
-should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
-otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
-unintelligible signs.
-
-Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
-with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
-nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
-seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
-life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
-the ground.
-
-Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
-dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
-his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
-softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.
-
-“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
-insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
-great?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
-hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
-the whole of your bargain.”
-
-“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”
-
-“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
-made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”
-
-“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
-rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
-take me to the coach.”
-
-“You?” said the Spy nervously.
-
-“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
-you brought me in?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
-take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
-happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
-Quick! Call assistance!”
-
-“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
-last moment.
-
-“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
-solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
-moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
-him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
-yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
-last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
-
-The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
-forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
-
-“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
-afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
-Sainte Guillotine?”
-
-“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
-if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
-
-They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
-brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
-
-“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.
-
-“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
-you, and leave me.”
-
-“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”
-
-The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
-listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
-suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
-footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
-made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
-sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
-
-Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
-began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
-finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
-saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
-at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
-within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
-the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
-standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
-but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
-fixedly at the ground.
-
-As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
-were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
-as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
-discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
-woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
-no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
-the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
-
-“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
-poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”
-
-He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”
-
-“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
-likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
-like me?”
-
-The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
-started from his eyes.
-
-“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
-am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
-to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
-Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
-
-As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
-warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
-
-“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”
-
-“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
-
-“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
-hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
-more courage.”
-
-As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
-them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
-fingers, and touched his lips.
-
-“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
-
-“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
-
-“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
-
-“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
-
- *****
-
-The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
-same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
-it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
-
-“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
-
-The papers are handed out, and read.
-
-“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
-
-This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
-pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
-Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
-
-Greatly too much for him.
-
-“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
-
-This is she.
-
-“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”
-
-It is.
-
-“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
-This is she?”
-
-She and no other.
-
-“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
-something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
-English. Which is he?”
-
-He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”
-
-It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
-he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
-under the displeasure of the Republic.
-
-“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
-displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
-Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”
-
-“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”
-
-It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
-is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
-door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
-carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
-carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
-the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
-mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
-an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
-
-“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”
-
-“One can depart, citizen?”
-
-“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”
-
-“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”
-
-These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
-looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
-is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
-
-“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
- asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
-
-“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
-it would rouse suspicion.”
-
-“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
-
-“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”
-
-Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
-dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
-trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
-either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
-stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
-sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
-wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
-anything but stopping.
-
-Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
-farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
-avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
-by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
-no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
-the posting-house.
-
-Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
-the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
-of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
-existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
-plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
-their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
-All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
-far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
-
-At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
-behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
-on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
-animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
-haunches. We are pursued?
-
-“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”
-
-“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
-
-“How many did they say?”
-
-“I do not understand you.”
-
-“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”
-
-“Fifty-two.”
-
-“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
-forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
-handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”
-
-The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
-to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
-by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
-us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
-
-The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
-the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
-us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Knitting Done
-
-
-In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
-Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
-Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
-erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
-conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
-was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
-
-“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
-Republican? Eh?”
-
-“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
-notes, “in France.”
-
-“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
-a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
-fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
-well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
-his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”
-
-“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
-with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
-citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
-
-“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
-his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
-me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
-child must follow the husband and father.”
-
-“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
-eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
-them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
-
-Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
-
-“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
-of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
-there. It is a pretty sight!”
-
-“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
-“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
-last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
-but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
-and then they might escape.”
-
-“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
-have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”
-
-“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
-pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
-regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
-therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
-submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
-
-“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
-“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
-this very day?”
-
-“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
-two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
-without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”
-
-He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
-imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
-never seen.
-
-“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”
-
-“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
-eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
-
-“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
-fellow-Jurymen.”
-
-“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
-Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
-I spare him?”
-
-“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
-“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”
-
-“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
-cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
-trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
-bad witness.”
-
-The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
-protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
-witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
-celestial witness.
-
-“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
-him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
-to-day executed.--You?”
-
-The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
-the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
-of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
-Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
-smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
-barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
-suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
-him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
-for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
-
-“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
-over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
-will give information against these people at my Section.”
-
-The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
-citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
-her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
-hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
-
-Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
-the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
-
-“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
-be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
-justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
-I will go to her.”
-
-“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
-Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
-embraced her.
-
-“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
-lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
-me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
-greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
-
-“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
-alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”
-
-“I shall be there before the commencement.”
-
-“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
-The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
-street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
-
-Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
-might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
-mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
-Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
-of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
-
-There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
-disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
-than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
-strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
-determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
-to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
-instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
-heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
-with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
-opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
-pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
-her.
-
-It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
-his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
-his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
-insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
-her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
-hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
-been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
-she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
-been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
-softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
-sent her there.
-
-Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
-worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
-dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
-bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
-dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
-a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
-walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
-sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
-
-Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
-waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
-the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
-attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
-but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
-it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
-escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
-Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
-and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
-three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
-Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
-passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
-advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
-of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
-
-Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
-pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
-beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
-passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
-their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
-taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
-else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
-
-“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
-was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
-“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
-carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
-suspicion.”
-
-“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
-wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
-
-“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
-Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
-_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”
-
-“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
-hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
-mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
-two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
-crisis?”
-
-“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
-them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
-
-“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
-an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
-more will I do it, never no more!”
-
-“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
-never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
-necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
-
-“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
-poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
-Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
-
-“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
-striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
-is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
-superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”
-
-“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
-most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
-be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
-opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
-hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
-time.”
-
-“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
-Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
-
-“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
-additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
-out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
-earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
-flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
-risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
-conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
-
-And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
-nearer and nearer.
-
-“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
-upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
-understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
-you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
-earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
-Cruncher, let us think!”
-
-Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
-and nearer.
-
-“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
-horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
-that be best?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
-
-“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
-Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
-Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
-
-“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
-the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
-towers?”
-
-“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
-straight, and make that change.”
-
-“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
-“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”
-
-“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
-Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
-and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
-of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
-that may depend on both of us!”
-
-This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
-clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
-immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
-to follow as she had proposed.
-
-The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
-execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
-her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
-streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
-minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
-
-Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
-rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
-in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
-which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
-could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
-dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
-was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
-out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
-
-The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
-Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
-those feet had come to meet that water.
-
-Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
-where is she?”
-
-It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
-and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
-four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
-the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
-
-Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
-and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
-about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
-of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
-way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
-
-“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
-Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
-me. I am an Englishwoman.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
-Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
-hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
-woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
-Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
-that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
-
-“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
-her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
-knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
-wish to see her.”
-
-“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
-depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”
-
-Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
-both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
-the unintelligible words meant.
-
-“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
-moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
-Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”
-
-“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
-was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
-you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”
-
-Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
-detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
-at naught.
-
-“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
-answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
-to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
- This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
-
-“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
-understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
-except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
-part of it.”
-
-Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
-Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
-first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
-
-“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
-English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
-greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
-dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
-
-Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
-between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
-Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
-
-But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
-irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
-Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
-laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
-Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
-of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
-answer the Citizeness Defarge!”
-
-Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
-expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
-either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
-Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
-
-“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
-are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
-you! Let me look.”
-
-“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
-Madame Defarge understood the answer.
-
-“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
-brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.
-
-“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
-uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
-know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
-that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”
-
-“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
-I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
-Madame Defarge.
-
-“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
-not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
-while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
-my darling,” said Miss Pross.
-
-Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
-moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
-It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
-with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
-clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
-that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
-face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
-clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
-
-Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
-waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
-shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
-you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
-
-Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
-what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
-alone--blinded with smoke.
-
-All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
-stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
-whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
-
-In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
-body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
-fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
-what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
-go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
-get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
-out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
-away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
-and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
-
-By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
-gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
-was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
-like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
-gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
-dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
-hundred ways.
-
-In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
-at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
-she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
-it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
-discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
-charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
-escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
-
-“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
-question and by her aspect.
-
-“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”
-
-It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
-not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
-all events she'll see that.” And she did.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
-presently.
-
-Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
-
-“I don't hear it.”
-
-“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
-much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
-
-“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
-and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”
-
-“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
-more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
-Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”
-
-“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
-my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
-and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
-broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
-
-“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
-journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
-opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
-
-And indeed she never did.
-
-
-
-
-XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
-tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
-insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
-are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
-France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
-a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
-conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
-humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
-twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
-rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
-the same fruit according to its kind.
-
-Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
-they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
-the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
-toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
-house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
-No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
-of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
-into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
-the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
-form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
- Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
-
-As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
-a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
-are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
-So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
-in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
-hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
-the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
-then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
-curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
-tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
-
-Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
-things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
-a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
-drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
-heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
-they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
-and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
-he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
-drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
-number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
-
-There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
-and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
-question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
-always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
-horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
-their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
-at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
-mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
-no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
-girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
-against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
-shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
-touch his face, his arms being bound.
-
-On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
-the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
-He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
-sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
-
-“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
-
-“That. At the back there.”
-
-“With his hand in the girl's?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
-Down, Evremonde!”
-
-“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
-
-“And why not, citizen?”
-
-“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
-Let him be at peace.”
-
-But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
-Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
-Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
-
-The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
-populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
-end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
-close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
-to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
-public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
-fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
-
-“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
-Defarge!”
-
-“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
-
-“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”
-
-“Louder,” the woman recommends.
-
-Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
-thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
-it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
-lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
-deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
-enough to find her!
-
-“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
-here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
-she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
-her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”
-
-As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
-begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
-robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
-scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
-think and speak, count One.
-
-The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
-the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
-
-The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
-after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
-still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
-crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
-his face and thanks him.
-
-“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
-naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
-able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
-have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
-Heaven.”
-
-“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
-and mind no other object.”
-
-“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
-it go, if they are rapid.”
-
-“They will be rapid. Fear not!”
-
-The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
-if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
-heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
-and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
-together, and to rest in her bosom.
-
-“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
-am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”
-
-“Tell me what it is.”
-
-“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
-love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
-farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
-nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
-tell her! It is better as it is.”
-
-“Yes, yes: better as it is.”
-
-“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
-thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
-much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
-and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
-live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
-
-“What then, my gentle sister?”
-
-“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
-endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
-“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
-where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”
-
-“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”
-
-“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
-moment come?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
-The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
-a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
-him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
-
-“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me shall never die.”
-
-The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
-on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
-forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
-Twenty-Three.
-
- *****
-
-They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
-peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
-sublime and prophetic.
-
-One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
-at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
-write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
-utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
-
-“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
-long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
-the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
-out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
-rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
-their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
-of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
-birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
-
-“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
-prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
-Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
-aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
-healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
-friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
-tranquilly to his reward.
-
-“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
-their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
-for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
-course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
-that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
-than I was in the souls of both.
-
-“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
-winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
-winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
-light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
-fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
-with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
-look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
-tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
-
-“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
-far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: A Tale of Two Cities
- A Story of the French Revolution
-
-Author: Charles Dickens
-
-Release Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]
-Posting Date: November 28, 2009
-Last Updated: March 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Judith Boss
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-A TALE OF TWO CITIES
-
-A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
-
-By Charles Dickens
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
- Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
- Chapter I The Period
- Chapter II The Mail
- Chapter III The Night Shadows
- Chapter IV The Preparation
- Chapter V The Wine-shop
- Chapter VI The Shoemaker
-
-
- Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
- Chapter I Five Years Later
- Chapter II A Sight
- Chapter III A Disappointment
- Chapter IV Congratulatory
- Chapter V The Jackal
- Chapter VI Hundreds of People
- Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town
- Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country
- Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head
- Chapter X Two Promises
- Chapter XI A Companion Picture
- Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy
- Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy
- Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman
- Chapter XV Knitting
- Chapter XVI Still Knitting
- Chapter XVII One Night
- Chapter XVIII Nine Days
- Chapter XIX An Opinion
- Chapter XX A Plea
- Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps
- Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises
- Chapter XXIII Fire Rises
- Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
- Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
- Chapter I In Secret
- Chapter II The Grindstone
- Chapter III The Shadow
- Chapter IV Calm in Storm
- Chapter V The Wood-sawyer
- Chapter VI Triumph
- Chapter VII A Knock at the Door
- Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards
- Chapter IX The Game Made
- Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow
- Chapter XI Dusk
- Chapter XII Darkness
- Chapter XIII Fifty-two
- Chapter XIV The Knitting Done
- Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
-
-
-
-I. The Period
-
-
-It was the best of times,
-it was the worst of times,
-it was the age of wisdom,
-it was the age of foolishness,
-it was the epoch of belief,
-it was the epoch of incredulity,
-it was the season of Light,
-it was the season of Darkness,
-it was the spring of hope,
-it was the winter of despair,
-we had everything before us,
-we had nothing before us,
-we were all going direct to Heaven,
-we were all going direct the other way--
-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
-its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
-evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-
-There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
-throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
-a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
-than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
-that things in general were settled for ever.
-
-It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
-as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
-blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
-heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
-made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
-ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
-messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
-deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
-earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
-from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
-to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
-communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
-brood.
-
-France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
-sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
-hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
-Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
-achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
-torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
-kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
-which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
-yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
-Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
-already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
-boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
-it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
-of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
-sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
-rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
-the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
-the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
-unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
-with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
-that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
-
-In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
-justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
-highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
-families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
-their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
-in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
-challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
-“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
-mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
-then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
-failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
-that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
-and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
-illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
-gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
-fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
-thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
-Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
-for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
-musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
-much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
-and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
-up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
-Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
-hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
-Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
-and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
-sixpence.
-
-All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
-upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
-those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
-fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
-with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
-and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
-creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
-roads that lay before them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Mail
-
-
-It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
-before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
-The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
-Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
-as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
-for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
-and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
-horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
-coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
-to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
-combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
-otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
-are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
-their duty.
-
-With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
-the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
-falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
-them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
-near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
-unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
-hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
-nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
-
-There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
-forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
-none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
-air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
-waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
-everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
-and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
-into it, as if they had made it all.
-
-Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
-side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
-ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
-anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
-hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
-the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
-were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
-the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
-when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
-“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
-non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
-of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
-thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
-he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
-and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
-loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
-deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
-
-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
-the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
-all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
-the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
-taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
-journey.
-
-“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
-top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
-it!--Joe!”
-
-“Halloa!” the guard replied.
-
-“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”
-
-“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
-
-“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
-yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
-
-The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
-made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
-suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
-passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
-stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
-had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
-into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
-getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
-
-The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
-stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
-the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
-
-“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
-box.
-
-“What do you say, Tom?”
-
-They both listened.
-
-“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”
-
-“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
-of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
-name, all of you!”
-
-With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
-the offensive.
-
-The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
-the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
-remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
-in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
-and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
-back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
-his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
-
-The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
-of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
-indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
-the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
-passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
-quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
-the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
-
-The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
-
-“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
-I shall fire!”
-
-The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
-a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”
-
-“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Why do you want to know?”
-
-“I want a passenger, if it is.”
-
-“What passenger?”
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”
-
-Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
-the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
-
-“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
-“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
-your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”
-
-“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
-speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”
-
-(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
-himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)
-
-“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“What is the matter?”
-
-“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”
-
-“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
-road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
-passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
-pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
-
-“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
-guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”
-
-“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
-
-“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
-saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
-at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
-now let's look at you.”
-
-The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
-and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
-stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
-a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
-rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
-the man.
-
-“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
-
-The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
-blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
-answered curtly, “Sir.”
-
-“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
-know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
-to drink. I may read this?”
-
-“If so be as you're quick, sir.”
-
-He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
-read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
-It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
-TO LIFE.”
-
-Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
- said he, at his hoarsest.
-
-“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
-well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”
-
-With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
-all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
-their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
-pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
-the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
-
-The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
-it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
-in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
-having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
-looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
-few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
-furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
-and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
-himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
-and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
-five minutes.
-
-“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.
-
-“Hallo, Joe.”
-
-“Did you hear the message?”
-
-“I did, Joe.”
-
-“What did you make of it, Tom?”
-
-“Nothing at all, Joe.”
-
-“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
-myself.”
-
-Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
-only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
-shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
-holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
-heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
-hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
-hill.
-
-“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
-fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
-glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
-message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
-be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
-Jerry!”
-
-
-
-
-III. The Night Shadows
-
-
-A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
-constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
-solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
-one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
-room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
-heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
-its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
-awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
-turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
-to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
-water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
-of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
-book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
-but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
-eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
-in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
-my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
-consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
-individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
-any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
-a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
-innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
-
-As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
-messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
-first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
-three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
-coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
-been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
-breadth of a county between him and the next.
-
-The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
-ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
-own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
-assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
-no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
-were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
-far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
-a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
-throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
-for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
-poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
-muffled again.
-
-“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
-“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
-suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
-been a drinking!”
-
-His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
-times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
-which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
-over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
-so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
-wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
-have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
-
-While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
-watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
-was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
-night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
-shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
-They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
-
-What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
-its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
-likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
-their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
-
-Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
-passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
-lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
-and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
-jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
-coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
-bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
-stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
-and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
-all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
-the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
-stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
-little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
-them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
-safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
-
-But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
-(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
-always with him, there was another current of impression that never
-ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
-out of a grave.
-
-Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
-was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
-not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
-years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
-and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
-defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
-so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
-and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
-prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
-spectre:
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-“You know that you are recalled to life?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”
-
-The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
-the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
- Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
-“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
-was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”
-
-After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
-and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
-hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
-hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
-passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
-reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
-
-Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
-patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
-by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
-of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
-real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
-sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
-of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
-it again.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
-passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
-securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
-slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
-slid away into the bank and the grave.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
-his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
-passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
-shadows of the night were gone.
-
-He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
-ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
-last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
-in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
-upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
-and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
-
-“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
-Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
-
-
-
-
-IV. The Preparation
-
-
-When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
-the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
-custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
-from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
-traveller upon.
-
-By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
-congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
-roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
-and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
-like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
-of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
-muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
-
-“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
-
-“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
-tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
-sir?”
-
-“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”
-
-“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
-Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
-gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
-Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”
-
-The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
-mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
-head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
-Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
-all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
-drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
-loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
-and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
-brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
-square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
-his breakfast.
-
-The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
-in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
-with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
-that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
-
-Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
-loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
-as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
-evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
-of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
-fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
-wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
-head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
-looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
-His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
-was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
-beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
-face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
-quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
-their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
-reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
-cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
-But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
-principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
-second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
-
-Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
-Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
-and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
-
-“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
-time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
-gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
-their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
-vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”
-
-“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
-sir?”
-
-“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
-from France.”
-
-“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
-time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
-Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
-years ago?”
-
-“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
-the truth.”
-
-“Indeed, sir!”
-
-Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
-table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
-dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
-he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
-immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
-
-When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
-the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
-from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
-ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
-wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
-destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
-brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
-a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
-dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
-fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
-night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
-made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
-sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
-that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
-
-As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
-at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
-again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
-too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
-his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
-digging, digging, in the live red coals.
-
-A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
-harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
-Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
-glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
-ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
-got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
-street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
-
-He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.
-
-In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
-had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
-Tellson's.
-
-“So soon?”
-
-Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
-then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
-immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
-
-The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
-glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
-wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
-It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
-horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
-oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
-were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
-graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
-from them until they were dug out.
-
-The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
-way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
-the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
-candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
-the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
-and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
-his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
-hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
-a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
-it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
-not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
-fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
-eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
-of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
-Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
-high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
-the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
-procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
-offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
-feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
-
-“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
-little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
-
-“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
-date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
-
-“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
-some intelligence--or discovery--”
-
-“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
-
-“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
-long dead--”
-
-Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
-hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
-anybody in their absurd baskets!
-
-“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
-with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
-the purpose.”
-
-“Myself.”
-
-“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”
-
-She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
-pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
-was than she. He made her another bow.
-
-“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
-those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
-France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
-me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
-during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
-gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
-beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
-
-“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
-be more happy to execute it.”
-
-“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
-by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
-business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
-nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
-strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
-
-“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”
-
-After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
-ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”
-
-He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
-forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
-and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
-as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
-shadow.
-
-“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
-
-“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
-an argumentative smile.
-
-Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
-which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
-deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
-she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
-moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
-
-“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
-as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”
-
-“If you please, sir.”
-
-“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
-acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
-if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
-your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
-
-“Story!”
-
-He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
-in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
-our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
-gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”
-
-“Not of Beauvais?”
-
-“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
-Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
-time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”
-
-“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”
-
-“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
-I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
-French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
-In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
-scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
-there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
-sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
-business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
-the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
-machine. To go on--”
-
-“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
-curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
-left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
-it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
-to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
-conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
-the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
-his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
-down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
-
-“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
-just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
-with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
-that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
-Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
-Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
-of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
-Mangle.”
-
-After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
-flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
-unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
-before), and resumed his former attitude.
-
-“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
-regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
-when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”
-
-She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
-
-“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
-the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
-him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
-business. As I was saying--”
-
-Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
-
-“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
-and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
-been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
-trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
-privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
-to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
-privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
-to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
-implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
-him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
-been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”
-
-“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
-
-“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”
-
-“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
-moment.”
-
-“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
-his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
-Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
-if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
-had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
-born--”
-
-“The little child was a daughter, sir.”
-
-“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
-poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
-that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
-inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
-rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
-Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
-
-“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
-
-“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
-business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
-mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
-shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
-much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
-
-Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
-very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
-his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
-communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
-
-“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
-you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
-you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
-her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
-to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
-upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
-heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
-
-As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
-flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
-been already tinged with grey.
-
-“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
-they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
-discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
-
-He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
-forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
-now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
-
-“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
-probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
-Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
-in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
-restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
-
-A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
-low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
-
-“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”
-
-Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
-there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
-You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
-sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
-
-She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
-have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
-
-“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
-wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
-another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
-worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
-know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
-held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
-because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
-anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
-events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
-Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
-the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
-to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
-and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
-which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
-word! Miss Manette!”
-
-Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
-sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
-upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
-branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
-feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
-out loudly for assistance without moving.
-
-A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
-be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
-extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
-wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
-or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
-inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
-poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
-flying back against the nearest wall.
-
-(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
-reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
-
-“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
-“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
-at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
-things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
-water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”
-
-There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
-softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
-gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
-golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
-
-“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
-“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
-to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
-you call _that_ being a Banker?”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
-answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
-sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
-servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
-not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
-regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
-upon her shoulder.
-
-“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
-
-“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
-humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”
-
-“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
-intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
-would have cast my lot in an island?”
-
-This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
-consider it.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wine-shop
-
-
-A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
-accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
-out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
-outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
-
-All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
-idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
-stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
-thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
-had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
-jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
-made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
-women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
-run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
-the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
-handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
-mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
-others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
-there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
-directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
-pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
-fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
-wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
-along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
-if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
-presence.
-
-A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
-and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
-was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
-special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
-of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
-luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
-shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
-together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
-most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
-demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
-had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
-motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
-hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
-starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
-with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
-the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
-gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
-
-The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
-in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
-stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
-wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
-on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
-stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
-Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
-tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
-head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
-upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
-
-The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
-street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
-
-And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
-gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
-heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
-waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
-but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
-terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
-fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
-passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
-in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
-had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
-children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
-grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
-was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
-of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
-lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
-paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
-firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
-chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
-among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
-baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
-bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
-was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
-chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
-farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
-drops of oil.
-
-Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
-street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
-diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
-and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
-that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
-wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
-slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
-compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
-into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
-inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
-were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
-painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
-meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
-croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
-gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
-flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
-and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
-gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
-with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
-broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
-the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
-rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
-the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
-pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
-and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
-manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
-the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
-
-For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
-should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
-long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
-up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
-condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
-France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
-song and feather, took no warning.
-
-The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
-appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
-it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
-for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
-of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
-another.”
-
-There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
-he called to him across the way:
-
-“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
-
-The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
-the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
-often the way with his tribe too.
-
-“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
-keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
-mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
-in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
-to write such words in?”
-
-In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
-perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
-own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
-attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
-hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
-practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
-
-“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
-there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
-dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
-his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
-
-This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
-and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
-bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
-His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
-the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
-crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
-eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
-the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
-resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
-down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
-the man.
-
-Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
-came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
-a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
-heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
-manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
-have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
-in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
-sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
-shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
-earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
-her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
-by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
-coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
-of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
-line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
-shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
-he stepped over the way.
-
-The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
-rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
-a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
-dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
-of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
-elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”
-
-“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
-to himself; “I don't know you.”
-
-But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
-with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
-all the spilt wine swallowed?”
-
-“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
-
-When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
-picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
-and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
-Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
-of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
-
-“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
-
-At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
-using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
-cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
-drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
-
-“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
-always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
-right, Jacques?”
-
-“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
-when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
-slightly rustled in her seat.
-
-“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”
-
-The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
-flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
-giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
-wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
-of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
-upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
-wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
-fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
-close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
-my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
-there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
-
-They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
-Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
-gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
-
-“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
-the door.
-
-Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
-word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
-not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
-beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
-knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
-
-Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
-joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
-company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
-and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
-by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
-gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
-to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
-a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
-transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
-in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
-angry, dangerous man.
-
-“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
- Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
-ascending the stairs.
-
-“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
-
-“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
-same low voice.
-
-“Is he always alone, then?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Of his own desire?”
-
-“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
-found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
-discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
-
-“He is greatly changed?”
-
-“Changed!”
-
-The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
-and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
-forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
-two companions ascended higher and higher.
-
-Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
-parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
-indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
-within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
-the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
-staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
-flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
-hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
-the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
-intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
-insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
-and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
-his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
-Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
-at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
-uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
-to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
-caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
-or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
-promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
-
-At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
-third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
-and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
-was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
-advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
-dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
-here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
-his shoulder, took out a key.
-
-“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
-
-“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
-
-“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
-closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
-frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
-harm--if his door was left open.”
-
-“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
-world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
-are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
-that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
-
-This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
-of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
-under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
-and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
-on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
-
-“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
-moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
-all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
-bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
-That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
-
-They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
-soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
-once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
-the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
-the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
-footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
-themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
-wine-shop.
-
-“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
-Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
-
-The three glided by, and went silently down.
-
-There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
-the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
-Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
-
-“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
-
-“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
-
-“Is that well?”
-
-“_I_ think it is well.”
-
-“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
-
-“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
-sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
-thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
-
-With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
-through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
-twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
-make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
-three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
-it as heavily as he could.
-
-The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
-room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
-than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
-
-He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
-got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
-felt that she was sinking.
-
-“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
-business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
-
-“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
-
-“Of it? What?”
-
-“I mean of him. Of my father.”
-
-Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
-their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
-shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
-down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
-
-Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
-took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
-methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
-could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
-where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
-
-The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
-and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
-roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
-the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
-other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
-door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
-Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
-was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
-alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
-requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
-done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
-towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
-him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
-busy, making shoes.
-
-
-
-
-VI. The Shoemaker
-
-
-“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
-bent low over the shoemaking.
-
-It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
-salutation, as if it were at a distance:
-
-“Good day!”
-
-“You are still hard at work, I see?”
-
-After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
-voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
-had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
-
-The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
-faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
-doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
-the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
-of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
-resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
-beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
-suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
-it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
-wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
-home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
-
-Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
-up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
-perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
-aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
-
-“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
-“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”
-
-The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
-at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
-other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“You can bear a little more light?”
-
-“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
-stress upon the second word.)
-
-The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
-angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
-showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
-labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
-feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
-long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
-thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
-dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
-otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
-His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
-to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
-stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
-from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
-parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
-
-He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
-of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
-pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
-first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
-lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
-first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
-
-“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
-motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
-
-“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”
-
-But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
-
-Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
-he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
-looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
-unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
-it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
-the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
-look and the action had occupied but an instant.
-
-“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Here is a visitor.”
-
-The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
-work.
-
-“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
-he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
-
-“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
-
-There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
-
-“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”
-
-“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
-information?”
-
-“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
-present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
-glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
-
-“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.
-
-Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
-in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
-hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
-so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
-recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
-had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
-endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
-fast-dying man.
-
-“Did you ask me for my name?”
-
-“Assuredly I did.”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
-again, until the silence was again broken.
-
-“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
-at him.
-
-His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
-question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
-on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
-
-“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
-learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”
-
-He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
-hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
-from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
-resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
-subject of last night.
-
-“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
-a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”
-
-As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
-Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
-
-“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
-
-The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
-questioner.
-
-“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
-remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
-banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
-mind, Monsieur Manette?”
-
-As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
-Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
-intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
-through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
-again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
-so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
-had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
-she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
-raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
-shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
-trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
-breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
-repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
-looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
-
-Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
-less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
-and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
-took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
-
-“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.
-
-“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
-unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
-well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”
-
-She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
-which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
-figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
-over his labour.
-
-Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
-beside him, and he bent over his work.
-
-It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
-in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
-which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
-stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
-raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
-but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
-striking at her with the knife, though they had.
-
-He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
-to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
-the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
-
-“What is this?”
-
-With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
-lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
-laid his ruined head there.
-
-“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”
-
-She sighed “No.”
-
-“Who are you?”
-
-Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
-beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
-thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
-laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
-
-Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
-aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
-little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
-he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
-shoemaking.
-
-But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
-shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
-be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
-to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
-attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
-a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
-hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
-
-He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
-the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”
-
-As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
-become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
-light, and looked at her.
-
-“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
-out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
-brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
-leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
-may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
-well.”
-
-He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
-But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
-though slowly.
-
-“How was this?--_Was it you_?”
-
-Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
-frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
-said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
-us, do not speak, do not move!”
-
-“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”
-
-His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
-hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
-shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
-tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
-gloomily shook his head.
-
-“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
-prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
-she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
-was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
-name, my gentle angel?”
-
-Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
-before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
-
-“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
-and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
-cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
-tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
-me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”
-
-His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
-lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
-
-“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
-is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
-sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
-touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
-breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
-I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
-with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
-remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
-weep for it, weep for it!”
-
-She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
-child.
-
-“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
-have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
-peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
-and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
-if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
-and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
-honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
-striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
-my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
-for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
-tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
-God for us, thank God!”
-
-He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
-touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
-had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
-
-When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
-breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
-storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
-called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
-daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
-there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
-head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
-him from the light.
-
-“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
-he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
-arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
-could be taken away--”
-
-“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
-him.”
-
-“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
-than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
-Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”
-
-“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
-methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”
-
-“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
-composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
-now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
-interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
-as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
-you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
-
-Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
-in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
-and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
-for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
-dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
-to do it.
-
-Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
-hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
-deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
-through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
-had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
-meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
-lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
-garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
-assisted him to his feet.
-
-No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
-the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
-whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
-he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
-tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
-answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
-the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
-occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
-in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
-daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
-
-In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
-ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
-and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
-his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
-in both his own.
-
-They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
-Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
-of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
-round at the walls.
-
-“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
-she had repeated it.
-
-“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”
-
-That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
-prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
-evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
-him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
-tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
-no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
-dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
-
-No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
-many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
-silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
-that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
-saw nothing.
-
-The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
-him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
-miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
-Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
-went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
-brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
-against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
-
-Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
-postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
-over-swinging lamps.
-
-Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
-streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
-illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
-gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
-travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
-getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
-monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
-him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
-military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
-in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
-or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
-Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
-grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
-grove of stars.
-
-Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
-this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
-rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
-is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
-All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
-whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
-man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
-lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:
-
-“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”
-
-And the old answer:
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-
-The end of the first book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
-
-
-
-I. Five Years Later
-
-
-Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
-year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
-dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
-moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
-proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
-proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
-in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
-it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
-no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
-convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
-no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
-embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
-Tellson's, thank Heaven--!
-
-Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
-question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
-on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
-suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
-objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
-
-Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
-of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
-a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
-and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
-counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
-wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
-windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
-and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
-heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
-“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
-where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
-hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
-twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
-drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
-they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
-were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
-the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
-polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
-made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
-parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
-papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
-dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
-one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
-by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
-from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
-exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
-Abyssinia or Ashantee.
-
-But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
-with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
-Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
-Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
-was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
-purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
-of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
-Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
-three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
-Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
-might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
-reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
-particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
-after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
-its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
-low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
-disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
-ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
-
-Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
-oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
-man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
-old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
-Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
-be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
-and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
-
-Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
-odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
-sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
-upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
-of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
-in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
-tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
-this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
-occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
-easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
-appellation of Jerry.
-
-The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
-Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
-morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
-always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
-the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
-popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
-
-Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
-but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
-might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
-it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
-already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
-for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
-was spread.
-
-Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
-at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
-and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
-looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
-exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
-
-“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
-
-A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
-corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
-person referred to.
-
-“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
-agin, are you?”
-
-After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
-the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
-odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
-whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
-often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
-
-“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
-mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”
-
-“I was only saying my prayers.”
-
-“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
-yourself down and praying agin me?”
-
-“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”
-
-“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
-your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
-father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
-You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
-herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
-of the mouth of her only child.”
-
-Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
-to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
-board.
-
-“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
-unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
-Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”
-
-“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
-that.”
-
-“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
-much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
-afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
-you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
-child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
-wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
-have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
-countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
-B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
-on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
-another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
-devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
-boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
-then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
-tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
-in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
-laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
-it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
-I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
-been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
-it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
-say now!”
-
-Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
-You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
-and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
-from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
-himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
-In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
-and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
-kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
-woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
-his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
---Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
-again with an undutiful grin.
-
-Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
-breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
-animosity.
-
-“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”
-
-His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
-
-“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
-to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
-ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
-blest off my table. Keep still!”
-
-Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
-which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
-his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
-inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
-aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
-he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
-of the day.
-
-It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
-description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
-a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
-young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
-beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
-with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
-from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
-feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
-Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
-itself,--and was almost as in-looking.
-
-Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
-three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
-Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
-standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
-inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
-boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
-extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
-in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
-eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
-The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
-the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
-youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
-in Fleet-street.
-
-The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
-establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
-
-“Porter wanted!”
-
-“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”
-
-Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
-the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
-had been chewing, and cogitated.
-
-“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
-“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
-rust here!”
-
-
-
-
-II. A Sight
-
-
-“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
-clerks to Jerry the messenger.
-
-“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
-know the Bailey.”
-
-“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
-better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
-in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”
-
-“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
-door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”
-
-“Into the court, sir?”
-
-“Into the court.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
-interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”
-
-“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
-conference.
-
-“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
-Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
-attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
-to remain there until he wants you.”
-
-“Is that all, sir?”
-
-“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
-you are there.”
-
-As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
-Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
-blotting-paper stage, remarked:
-
-“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”
-
-“Treason!”
-
-“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”
-
-“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
-spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”
-
-“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
-him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
-
-“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
-care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
-care of itself. I give you that advice.”
-
-“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
-leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
-
-“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
-gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
-ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”
-
-Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
-deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
-too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
-and went his way.
-
-They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
-not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
-But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
-villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
-into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
-dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
-had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
-his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
-For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
-from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
-a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
-half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
-So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
-was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
-a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
-the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
-softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
-blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
-leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
-under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
-illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
-that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
-consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
-
-Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
-hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
-way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
-his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
-at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
-former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
-doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
-criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
-
-After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
-very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
-court.
-
-“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
-to.
-
-“Nothing yet.”
-
-“What's coming on?”
-
-“The Treason case.”
-
-“The quartering one, eh?”
-
-“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
-be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
-face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
-and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
-That's the sentence.”
-
-“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.
-
-“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
-that.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
-saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
-sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
-gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
-before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
-in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
-then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
-court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
-with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
-to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
-
-“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
-
-“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.
-
-“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
-
-“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.
-
-The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
-central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
-went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
-
-Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
-ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
-at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
-pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
-stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
-laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
-themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
-upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
-Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
-of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
-whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
-the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
-that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
-in an impure mist and rain.
-
-The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
-five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
-a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
-dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
-dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
-of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
-itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
-situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
-soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
-bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
-
-The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
-was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
-horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
-details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
-fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
-was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
-and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
-spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
-powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
-
-Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
-an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
-he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
-forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
-occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
-King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
-so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
-our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
-said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
-evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
-said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
-to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
-becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
-huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
-the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
-there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
-that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
-
-The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
-beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
-the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
-attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
-and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
-composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
-it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
-vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
-
-Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
-upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
-it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
-in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
-glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
-day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
-for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
-that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
-of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
-face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
-
-It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
-which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
-in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
-immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
-aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
-
-The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
-twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
-remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
-and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
-but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
-looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
-it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
-handsome man, not past the prime of life.
-
-His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
-him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
-dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
-been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
-that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
-noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
-had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
-“Who are they?”
-
-Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
-manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
-absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
-him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
-from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
-to Jerry:
-
-“Witnesses.”
-
-“For which side?”
-
-“Against.”
-
-“Against what side?”
-
-“The prisoner's.”
-
-The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
-leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
-in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
-axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
-
-
-
-
-III. A Disappointment
-
-
-Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
-them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
-claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
-public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
-even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
-prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
-repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
-he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
-traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
-wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
-That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
-was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
-prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
-Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
-That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
-attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
-friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
-infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
-in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
-were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
-benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
-they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
-as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
-knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
-whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
-they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
-especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
-That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
-for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
-communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
-a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
-and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
-hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
-in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
-brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
-Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
-on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
-witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
-produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
-his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
-sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
-such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
-proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
-same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
-showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
-would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
-in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
-very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
-That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
-were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
-positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
-they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
-pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
-their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
-of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
-there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
-pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
-Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
-everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
-of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
-good as dead and gone.
-
-When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
-a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
-anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
-unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
-
-Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
-patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
-exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
-it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
-of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
-wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
-Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
-opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
-
-Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
-What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
-precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
-Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
-distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
-prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
-prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
-times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
-been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
-Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
-downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
-dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
-committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
-Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
-more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
-Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
-very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
-No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
-about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
-Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
-pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
-no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
-patriotism? None whatever.
-
-The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
-great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
-simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
-packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
-He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
-charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
-the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
-his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
-prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
-the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
-had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
-at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
-Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
-information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
-he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
-only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
-that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
-coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
-curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
-was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
-
-The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry.
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
-seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
-Dover by the mail?”
-
-“It did.”
-
-“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
-
-“Two.”
-
-“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
-
-“They did.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”
-
-“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
-
-“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
-
-“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
-reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
-those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
-render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”
-
-“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
-myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
-air.”
-
-“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“I certainly have seen that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
-certain knowledge, before?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
-prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
-voyage with me.”
-
-“At what hour did he come on board?”
-
-“At a little after midnight.”
-
-“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
-at that untimely hour?”
-
-“He happened to be the only one.”
-
-“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
-came on board in the dead of the night?”
-
-“He was.”
-
-“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
-
-“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
-
-“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
-
-“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
-I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
-
-“Miss Manette!”
-
-The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
-turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
-kept her hand drawn through his arm.
-
-“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
-
-To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
-far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
-Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
-the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
-to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
-before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
-to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
-rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
-
-“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Where?”
-
-“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
-occasion.”
-
-“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
-
-“O! most unhappily, I am!”
-
-The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
-of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
-to you, and make no remark upon them.”
-
-“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
-passage across the Channel?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Recall it.”
-
-In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
-gentleman came on board--”
-
-“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
-
-“Yes, my Lord.”
-
-“Then say the prisoner.”
-
-“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
-her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
-and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
-afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
-deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
-care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
-The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
-shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
-had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
-set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
-great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
-felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
-
-“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“How many were with him?”
-
-“Two French gentlemen.”
-
-“Had they conferred together?”
-
-“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
-necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”
-
-“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”
-
-“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
-papers.”
-
-“Like these in shape and size?”
-
-“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
-near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
-light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
-spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
-they looked at papers.”
-
-“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”
-
-“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
-of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
-father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
-harm to-day.”
-
-Buzzing from the blue-flies.
-
-“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
-you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
-give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
-he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”
-
-“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
-difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
-therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
-had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
-take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
-time to come.”
-
-“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”
-
-“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
-that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
-England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
-Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
-Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
-laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
-
-Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
-a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
-unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
-anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
-she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
-the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
-expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
-of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
-when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
-heresy about George Washington.
-
-Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
-necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
-father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
-
-“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
-
-“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
-three years and a half ago.”
-
-“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
-speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
-
-“Sir, I can do neither.”
-
-“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
-either?”
-
-He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
-
-“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
-trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”
-
-He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”
-
-“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
-
-“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
-time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
-time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
-here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
-my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
-familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
-
-Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
-together.
-
-A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
-to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
-in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
-got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
-not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
-to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
-was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
-in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
-waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
-this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
-on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
-been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
-little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
-this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
-attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
-
-“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
-
-The witness was quite sure.
-
-“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
-
-Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
-
-“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
-to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
-prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”
-
-Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
-if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
-not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
-into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
-his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
-much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
-counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
-friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
-would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
-happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
-this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
-confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
-this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
-useless lumber.
-
-Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
-fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
-Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
-of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
-traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
-scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
-rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
-and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
-swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
-affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
-those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
-consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
-even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
-and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
-had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
-gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
-and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
-reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
-impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
-How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
-attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
-and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
-how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
-character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
-State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
-(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
-not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
-
-Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
-attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
-Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
-Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
-prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
-the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
-decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
-
-And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
-
-Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
-changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
-While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
-whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
-anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
-grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
-and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
-in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
-sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
-on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
-hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
-day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
-a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
-undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
-when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
-lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
-hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
-observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
-that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
-to get any, do he?”
-
-Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
-appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
-her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
-“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
-Don't you see she will fall!”
-
-There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
-sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
-him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
-strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
-brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
-ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
-moment, spoke, through their foreman.
-
-They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
-Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
-but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
-and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
-the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
-jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
-refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
-down.
-
-Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
-now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
-could easily get near him.
-
-“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
-way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
-behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
-are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
-before I can.”
-
-Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
-acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
-at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
-
-“How is the young lady?”
-
-“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
-feels the better for being out of court.”
-
-“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
-like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
-in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
-The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
-eyes, ears, and spikes.
-
-“Mr. Darnay!”
-
-The prisoner came forward directly.
-
-“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
-will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”
-
-“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
-for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
-
-“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
-
-Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
-half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
-
-“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
-
-“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
-Mr. Darnay?”
-
-“The worst.”
-
-“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
-withdrawing is in your favour.”
-
-Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
-more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
-in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
-them.
-
-An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
-passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
-The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
-refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
-of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
-with them.
-
-“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
-there.
-
-“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
-
-Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
-it?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
-
-“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
-Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”
-
-He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
-until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
-with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
-swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
-search of other carrion.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Congratulatory
-
-
-From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
-human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
-Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
-for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
-Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
-death.
-
-It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
-in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
-shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
-twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
-had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
-to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
-reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
-lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
-from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
-itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
-unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
-Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
-hundred miles away.
-
-Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
-his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
-misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
-the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
-influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
-recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
-and slight, and she believed them over.
-
-Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
-to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
-more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
-loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
-way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
-conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
-
-He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
-late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
-out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
-Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
-less likely to succeed on that account.”
-
-“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
- said his late client, taking his hand.
-
-“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
-another man's, I believe.”
-
-It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
-said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
-object of squeezing himself back again.
-
-“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
-and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
-
-“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
-now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
-him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
-this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
-Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”
-
-“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
-do yet. Speak for yourself.”
-
-“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
-Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
- He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
-
-His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
-Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
-not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
-thoughts had wandered away.
-
-“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
-
-He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
-
-“Shall we go home, my father?”
-
-With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”
-
-The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
-impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
-released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
-passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
-and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
-gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
-Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
-the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
-departed in it.
-
-Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
-to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
-interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
-against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
-out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
-stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
-
-“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”
-
-Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
-proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
-better for it in appearance.
-
-“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
-business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
-appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
-sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
-have to think of the House more than ourselves.”
-
-“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
-nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
-I dare say.”
-
-“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
-know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
-much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
-business.”
-
-“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“It is a pity you have not, sir.”
-
-“I think so, too.”
-
-“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”
-
-“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
-“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
-if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
-Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
-for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
-I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
-life.--Chair there!”
-
-Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
-Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
-who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
-then, and turned to Darnay:
-
-“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
-be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
-these street stones?”
-
-“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
-again.”
-
-“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
-advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”
-
-“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”
-
-“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
-numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
-some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”
-
-Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
-Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
-shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
-his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
-opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
-before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
-
-“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
-Darnay?”
-
-“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
-mended as to feel that.”
-
-“It must be an immense satisfaction!”
-
-He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
-one.
-
-“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
-It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
-are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
-not much alike in any particular, you and I.”
-
-Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
-this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
-at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
-
-“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
-health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”
-
-“What health? What toast?”
-
-“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
-swear it's there.”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
-flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
-pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
- he said, filling his new goblet.
-
-A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
-feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
-sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”
-
-Again Darnay answered not a word.
-
-“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
-that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”
-
-The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
-disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
-strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
-for it.
-
-“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
-“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
-it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”
-
-“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”
-
-“Do you think I particularly like you?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
-not asked myself the question.”
-
-“But ask yourself the question now.”
-
-“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”
-
-“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
-opinion of your understanding.”
-
-“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
-nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
-parting without ill-blood on either side.”
-
-Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
-reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
-bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
-ten.”
-
-The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
-Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
-of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
-I am drunk?”
-
-“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
-
-“Since I must say so, I know it.”
-
-“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
-care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
-
-“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
-
-“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
-however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”
-
-When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
-glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
-
-“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
-should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
-in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
-made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
-what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
-places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
-he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
-have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
-
-He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
-minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
-table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Jackal
-
-
-Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
-the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
-statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
-in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
-perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
-The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
-learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
-Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
-practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
-drier parts of the legal race.
-
-A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
-begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
-he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
-specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
-visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
-florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
-the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
-among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
-
-It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
-man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
-faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
-among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
-But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
-business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
-pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
-Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
-
-Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
-ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
-might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
-anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
-at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
-they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
-rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
-to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
-among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
-would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
-rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
-wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“_What's_ the matter?”
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”
-
-“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
-
-“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
-
-After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
-dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
-he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
-and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
-Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
-
-The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
-home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
-and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
-had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
-may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
-Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
-Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
-
-“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.
-
-“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”
-
-They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
-where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
-the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
-it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
-
-“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”
-
-“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
-seeing him dine--it's all one!”
-
-“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
-identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”
-
-“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
-been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”
-
-Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
-
-“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”
-
-Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
-room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
-or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
-out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
-at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”
-
-“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
-gaily, as he looked among his papers.
-
-“How much?”
-
-“Only two sets of them.”
-
-“Give me the worst first.”
-
-“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
-
-The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
-drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
-proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
-his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
-a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
-his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
-lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
-so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
-stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
-more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
-matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
-him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
-jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
-no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
-gravity.
-
-At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
-proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
-made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
-assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
-hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
-invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
-to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
-this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
-disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
-
-“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
-Stryver.
-
-The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
-again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
-
-“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
-to-day. Every question told.”
-
-“I always am sound; am I not?”
-
-“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
-it and smooth it again.”
-
-With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
-
-“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
-his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
-old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
-now in despondency!”
-
-“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
-luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
-
-He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
-him, looking at the fire.
-
-“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
-as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
-was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
-Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
-is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
-at me.”
-
-“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
-good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”
-
-“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
-do?”
-
-“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
-your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
-do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”
-
-“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”
-
-“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
-Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
-
-“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
- pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
-mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
-picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
-didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
-nowhere.”
-
-“And whose fault was that?”
-
-“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
-driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
-that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
-thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
-Turn me in some other direction before I go.”
-
-“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
-his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”
-
-Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
-
-“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
-enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”
-
-“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”
-
-“_She_ pretty?”
-
-“Is she not?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”
-
-“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
-of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”
-
-“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
-and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
-thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
-and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”
-
-“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
-yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
-I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
-I'll get to bed.”
-
-When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
-him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
-windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
-dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
-lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
-before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
-the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
-
-Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
-on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
-wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
-perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
-from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
-fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
-A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
-houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
-pillow was wet with wasted tears.
-
-Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
-good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
-incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
-on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
-
-
-
-
-VI. Hundreds of People
-
-
-The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
-far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
-waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
-it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
-on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
-business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
-quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
-
-On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
-the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
-Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
-secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
-them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
-generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
-his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
-Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
-them.
-
-A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
-found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
-the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
-had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
-north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
-grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
-consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
-instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
-settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
-the peaches ripened in their season.
-
-The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
-of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
-though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
-glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
-place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
-
-There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
-there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
-several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
-audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
-a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
-rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
-to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
-who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
-he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
-visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
-to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
-a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
-workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
-about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
-thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
-required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
-the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
-from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
-
-Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
-its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
-His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
-ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
-he earned as much as he wanted.
-
-These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
-notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
-on the fine Sunday afternoon.
-
-“Doctor Manette at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Lucie at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Pross at home?”
-
-Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
-anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
-fact.
-
-“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”
-
-Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
-birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
-make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
-agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
-by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
-that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
-rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
-the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
-delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
-themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
-stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
-with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
-time, whether he approved?
-
-There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
-communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
-all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
-he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
-the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
-and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
-the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
-changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
-Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
-bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
-dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
-
-“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
-that reminder of his sufferings about him!”
-
-“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
-
-It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
-acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
-had since improved.
-
-“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.
-
-“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
-
-“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
-express that she bore him no malice.
-
-“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
-are you?”
-
-“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
-Ladybird.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
-fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
-stature) was shortness.
-
-“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
-
-“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
-very much put out.”
-
-“May I ask the cause?”
-
-“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
-come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”
-
-“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.
-
-It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
-time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
-she exaggerated it.
-
-“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
-
-“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
-paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
-your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
-for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
- said Miss Pross.
-
-Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
-using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
-fit anything.
-
-“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
-are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”
-
-“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”
-
-“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”
-
-“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
-enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
-that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
-him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
-circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
-and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
-him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”
-
-Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
-this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
-unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
-admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
-it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
-never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
-their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
-is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
-rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
-respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
-mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
-Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
-better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
-
-“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
-Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
-mistake in life.”
-
-Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
-established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
-who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
-speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
-no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
-(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
-matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
-
-“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
-business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
-sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
-in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”
-
-“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
-refer to it within himself.”
-
-“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”
-
-“I do,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
-short with:
-
-“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”
-
-“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
-sometimes?”
-
-“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
-bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
-theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
-the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
-oppressor?”
-
-“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”
-
-“And that is--?”
-
-“That she thinks he has.”
-
-“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
-mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”
-
-“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
-
-Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
-no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
-Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
-he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
-though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
-intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
-attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
-Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
-zealous interest.”
-
-“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
-me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
-of the whole subject.”
-
-“Afraid?”
-
-“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
-remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
-knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
-feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
-subject pleasant, I should think.”
-
-It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
-he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
-Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
-always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
-it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”
-
-“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
-string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
-In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
-the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
-up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
-know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
-his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
-and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
-a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
-best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
-together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
-brought him to himself.”
-
-Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
-perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
-in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
-her possessing such a thing.
-
-The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
-had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
-seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
-set it going.
-
-“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
-“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”
-
-It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
-peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
-looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
-they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
-the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
-heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
-at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
-was ready at the street door to receive them.
-
-Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
-off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
-with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
-folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
-as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
-had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
-sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
-her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
-playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
-chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
-them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
-eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
-have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
-beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
-stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
-Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
-for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
-
-Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
-the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
-always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
-quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
-contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
-better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
-kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
-impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
-impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
-of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
-who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
-or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
-a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
-pleased.
-
-On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
-persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
-regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
-which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
-Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
-to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
-
-It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
-wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
-there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
-they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
-the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
-time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
-plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
-and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
-whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
-
-Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
-presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
-was only One.
-
-Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
-suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
-retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
-disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
-jerks.”
-
-The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
-resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
-they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
-his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
-likeness.
-
-He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
-vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
-plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
-which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
-the Tower?”
-
-“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
-it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”
-
-“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
-though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
-character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
-curious thing when I was there.”
-
-“What was that?” Lucie asked.
-
-“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
-had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
-its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
-prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
-in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
-execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
-some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
-At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
-examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
-legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
-were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
-that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
-floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
-earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
-the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
-or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
-had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”
-
-“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”
-
-He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
-his look quite terrified them all.
-
-“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
-made me start. We had better go in.”
-
-He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
-drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
-said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
-of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
-either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
-towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
-when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
-
-He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
-his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
-steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
-was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
-that the rain had startled him.
-
-Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
-her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
-made only Two.
-
-The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
-windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
-done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
-heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
-leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
-the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
-ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
-
-“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
-Manette. “It comes slowly.”
-
-“It comes surely,” said Carton.
-
-They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
-dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
-
-There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
-get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
-resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
-footstep was there.
-
-“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
-listened for a while.
-
-“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
-sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
-a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
-solemn--”
-
-“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”
-
-“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
-originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
-sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
-the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
-by-and-bye into our lives.”
-
-“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
- Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
-
-The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
-rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
-as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
-coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
-the distant streets, and not one within sight.
-
-“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
-are we to divide them among us?”
-
-“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
-asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
-then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
-into my life, and my father's.”
-
-“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
-stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
-and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
-had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
-
-“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
-come, fast, fierce, and furious!”
-
-It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
-for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
-lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
-interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
-midnight.
-
-The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
-Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
-forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
-of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
-of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
-usually performed a good two hours earlier.
-
-“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
-bring the dead out of their graves.”
-
-“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
-would do that,” answered Jerry.
-
-“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
-Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”
-
-Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
-bearing down upon them, too.
-
-
-
-
-VII. Monseigneur in Town
-
-
-Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
-fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
-his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
-the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
-was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
-things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
-rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
-much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
-strong men besides the Cook.
-
-Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
-Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
-pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
-conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
-the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
-the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
-a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
-watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
-dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
-place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
-his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
-men; he must have died of two.
-
-Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
-and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
-a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
-impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
-more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
-state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
-for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
-favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
-days of the merry Stuart who sold it.
-
-Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
-was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
-business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
-his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
-particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
-was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
-by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
-thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”
-
-Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
-his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
-affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
-public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
-must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
-private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
-generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
-Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
-time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
-wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
-poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
-a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
-rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
-mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
-down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
-
-A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
-stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
-waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
-forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
-relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
-among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
-
-For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
-every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
-achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
-reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
-so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
-equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
-have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
-been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
-destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
-civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
-worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
-all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
-pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
-Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
-anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
-score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
-yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
-passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
-no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
-for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
-patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
-discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
-State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
-root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
-they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
-Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
-card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
-Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
-wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
-the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
-since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
-subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
-exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
-notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
-among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
-of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
-the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
-appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
-bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
-towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
-known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
-and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
-supped as at twenty.
-
-The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
-upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
-people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
-things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
-them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
-sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
-whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
-spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
-Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
-three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
-jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
-Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
-out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
-the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
-by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
-discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
-became manifest.
-
-But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
-Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
-ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
-correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
-delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
-swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
-surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
-of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
-languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
-and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
-fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
-his devouring hunger far away.
-
-Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
-things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
-was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
-Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
-of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
-descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
-required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
-and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
-rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
-Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
-him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
-Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
-of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
-hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
-see the very stars out!
-
-Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
-chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
-open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
-fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
-body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
-been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
-troubled it.
-
-Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
-happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
-passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
-Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
-course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
-sprites, and was seen no more.
-
-The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
-and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
-but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
-and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
-way out.
-
-“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
-and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”
-
-With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
-dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
-
-He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
-with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
-feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
-beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
-of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
-change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
-colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
-by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
-treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
-attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
-line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
-too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
-handsome face, and a remarkable one.
-
-Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
-drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
-stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
-in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
-to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
-often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
-charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
-check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
-sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
-that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
-custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
-barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
-time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
-left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
-
-With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
-consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
-dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
-before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
-its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
-wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
-number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
-
-But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
-stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
-behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
-and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
-
-“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
-
-A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
-the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
-down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
-
-“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
-a child.”
-
-“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”
-
-“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”
-
-The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
-into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
-got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
-Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
-
-“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
-their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”
-
-The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
-nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
-and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
-people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
-remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
-and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
-over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
-
-He took out his purse.
-
-“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
-of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
-the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
-him that.”
-
-He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
-craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
-tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”
-
-He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
-made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
-sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
-stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
-were as silent, however, as the men.
-
-“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
-Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
-live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
-as happily?”
-
-“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
-they call you?”
-
-“They call me Defarge.”
-
-“Of what trade?”
-
-“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”
-
-“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
-throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
-there; are they right?”
-
-Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
-Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
-air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
-paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
-disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
-
-“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”
-
-He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
-moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
-the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
-figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
-
-“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
-except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
-willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
-threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
-should be crushed under the wheels.”
-
-So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
-what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
-a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
-But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
-Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
-contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
-leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”
-
-He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
-succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
-Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
-whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
-had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
-on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
-spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
-which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
-bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
-while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
-of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
-had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
-of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
-into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
-time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
-in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
-things ran their course.
-
-
-
-
-VIII. Monseigneur in the Country
-
-
-A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
-Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
-and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
-inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
-tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
-disposition to give up, and wither away.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
-lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
-a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
-no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
-occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
-sun.
-
-The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
-gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
-die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”
-
-In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
-heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
-hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
-quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
-left when the drag was taken off.
-
-But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
-at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
-church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
-fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
-as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
-coming near home.
-
-The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
-tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
-fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
-its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
-shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
-fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
-the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
-were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
-for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
-paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
-the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.
-
-Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
-their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
-terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
-or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
-
-Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
-whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
-if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
-his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
-fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
-He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
-sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
-meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
-truth through the best part of a hundred years.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
-drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
-Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
-drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
-of the roads joined the group.
-
-“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.
-
-The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
-to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
-
-“I passed you on the road?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”
-
-“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true.”
-
-“What did you look at, so fixedly?”
-
-“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”
-
-He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
-carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
-
-“What man, pig? And why look there?”
-
-“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”
-
-“Who?” demanded the traveller.
-
-“Monseigneur, the man.”
-
-“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
-know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”
-
-“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
-all the days of my life, I never saw him.”
-
-“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”
-
-“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
-His head hanging over--like this!”
-
-He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
-face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
-himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
-
-“What was he like?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
-white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”
-
-The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
-eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
-the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
-conscience.
-
-“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
-vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
-and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
-Gabelle!”
-
-Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
-united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
-examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
-official manner.
-
-“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.
-
-“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
-to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”
-
-“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”
-
-“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”
-
-The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
-particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
-half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
-presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
-
-“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
-a person plunges into the river.”
-
-“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”
-
-The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
-wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
-to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
-they might not have been so fortunate.
-
-The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
-rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
-it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
-sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
-gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
-points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
-courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
-
-At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
-with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
-figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
-studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
-dreadfully spare and thin.
-
-To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
-growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
-turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
-presented herself at the carriage-door.
-
-“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”
-
-With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
-Monseigneur looked out.
-
-“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”
-
-“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”
-
-“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
-cannot pay something?”
-
-“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”
-
-“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”
-
-“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
-grass.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”
-
-“Again, well?”
-
-She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
-grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
-with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
-caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
-feel the appealing touch.
-
-“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
-want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”
-
-“Again, well? Can I feed them?”
-
-“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
-that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
-over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
-forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
-shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
-are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
-Monseigneur!”
-
-The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
-a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
-behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
-diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
-his chateau.
-
-The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
-the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
-at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
-of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
-man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
-could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
-in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
-stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
-been extinguished.
-
-The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
-was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
-for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
-of his chateau was opened to him.
-
-“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”
-
-“Monseigneur, not yet.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Gorgon's Head
-
-
-It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
-with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
-staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
-business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
-stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
-all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
-finished, two centuries ago.
-
-Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
-to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
-of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
-flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
-door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
-in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
-save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
-those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
-heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
-
-The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
-hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
-grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
-peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
-was angry.
-
-Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
-Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
-the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
-to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
-others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
-the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
-befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
-The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
-break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
-but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
-pages in the history of France.
-
-A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
-room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
-lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
-closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
-black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
-
-“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
-said he was not arrived.”
-
-Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
-
-“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
-table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
-
-In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
-sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
-he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
-lips, when he put it down.
-
-“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
-horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
-
-“Monseigneur? That?”
-
-“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”
-
-It was done.
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
-here.”
-
-The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
-the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
-for instructions.
-
-“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”
-
-That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
-half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
-hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
-front of the chateau.
-
-“Ask who is arrived.”
-
-It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
-Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
-rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
-He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
-
-He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
-there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
-He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
-
-Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
-hands.
-
-“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
-seat at table.
-
-“Yesterday. And you?”
-
-“I come direct.”
-
-“From London?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.
-
-“On the contrary; I come direct.”
-
-“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
-intending the journey.”
-
-“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
-answer--“various business.”
-
-“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.
-
-So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
-When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
-looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
-fine mask, opened a conversation.
-
-“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
-took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
-a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
-sustained me.”
-
-“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”
-
-“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
-the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”
-
-The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
-lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
-graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
-breeding that it was not reassuring.
-
-“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
-expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
-circumstances that surrounded me.”
-
-“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.
-
-“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
-deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
-and would know no scruple as to means.”
-
-“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
-two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”
-
-“I recall it.”
-
-“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
-
-His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
-instrument.
-
-“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
-bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
-France here.”
-
-“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
-“Dare I ask you to explain?”
-
-“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
-been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
-have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”
-
-“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
-of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
-Pray excuse me!”
-
-“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
-yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.
-
-“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
-politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
-consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
-your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
-yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
-at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
-aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
-might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
-and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
-(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
-things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
-of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
-dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
-one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
-some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
-lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
-assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
-to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
-bad!”
-
-The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
-as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
-containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
-
-“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
-time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
-more detested than any name in France.”
-
-“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
-involuntary homage of the low.”
-
-“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
-look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
-deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”
-
-“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
-merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
-Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
-crossed his legs.
-
-But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
-thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
-him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
-and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
-indifference.
-
-“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
-and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
-obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
-out the sky.”
-
-That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
-chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
-they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
-him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
-the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
-he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
-way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
-was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
-
-“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
-of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
-terminate our conference for the night?”
-
-“A moment more.”
-
-“An hour, if you please.”
-
-“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
-of wrong.”
-
-“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
-and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
-
-“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
-to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
-a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
-our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
-when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
-inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”
-
-“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.
-
-“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
-frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
-execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
-look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
-redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”
-
-“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
-breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
-will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”
-
-Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
-cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
-quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
-touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
-a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
-body, and said,
-
-“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
-lived.”
-
-When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
-box in his pocket.
-
-“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
-bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
-Monsieur Charles, I see.”
-
-“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
-renounce them.”
-
-“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
-is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”
-
-“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
-to me from you, to-morrow--”
-
-“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”
-
-“--or twenty years hence--”
-
-“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
-supposition.”
-
-“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
-relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
-
-“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
-under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
-mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
-and suffering.”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
-
-“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
-qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
-weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
-it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
-another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
-on it, and on all this land.”
-
-“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
-philosophy, graciously intend to live?”
-
-“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
-their backs, may have to do some day--work.”
-
-“In England, for example?”
-
-“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
-family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”
-
-The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
-lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
-Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
-valet.
-
-“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
-prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
-with a smile.
-
-“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
-be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”
-
-“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
-know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“With a daughter?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
-in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
-which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
-time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
-straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
-looked handsomely diabolic.
-
-“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
-commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
-outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
-looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
-
-“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
-again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
-chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
-added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
-valet to his own bedroom.
-
-The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
-loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
-night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
-noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
-enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
-periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
-coming on.
-
-He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
-scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
-toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
-prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
-the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
-chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
-the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
-tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”
-
-“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”
-
-So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
-gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
-with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
-
-The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
-for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
-rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
-very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
-the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
-hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
-
-For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
-stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
-dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
-The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
-were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
-have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
-taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
-the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
-the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
-freed.
-
-The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
-at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
-minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
-hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
-and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
-
-Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
-trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
-of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
-crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
-weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
-the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
-At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
-mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
-
-Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
-windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
-shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
-lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
-fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
-and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
-out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
-and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
-prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
-foot.
-
-The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
-surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
-reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
-now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
-round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
-doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
-pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
-
-All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
-return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
-chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
-figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
-everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
-
-What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
-at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
-much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
-peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
-to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
-no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
-down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
-fountain.
-
-All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
-in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
-emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
-in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
-on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
-trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
-the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
-all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
-on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
-highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
-into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
-himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
-and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
-a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
-(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
-the German ballad of Leonora?
-
-It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
-
-The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
-the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
-through about two hundred years.
-
-It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
-mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
-heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
-was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
-
-“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”
-
-
-
-
-X. Two Promises
-
-
-More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
-Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
-language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
-would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
-young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
-living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
-its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
-sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
-at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
-to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
-dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
-tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
-profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
-work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
-known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
-circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
-So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
-
-In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
-to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
-would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
-did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
-
-A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
-read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
-contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
-and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
-London.
-
-Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
-when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
-invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
-woman.
-
-He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
-heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
-he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
-confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
-him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
-at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
-long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
-mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
-much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
-
-That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
-summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
-he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
-of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
-day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
-
-He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
-which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
-their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
-very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
-of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
-sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
-exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
-frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
-
-He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
-ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
-sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
-
-“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
-return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
-both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”
-
-“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
-a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
-Manette--”
-
-“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
-delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
-soon be home.”
-
-“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
-being from home, to beg to speak to you.”
-
-There was a blank silence.
-
-“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
-and speak on.”
-
-He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
-easy.
-
-“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
- so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
-on which I am about to touch may not--”
-
-He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
-had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
-
-“Is Lucie the topic?”
-
-“She is.”
-
-“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
-to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”
-
-“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
-Manette!” he said deferentially.
-
-There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
-
-“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”
-
-His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
-originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
-Darnay hesitated.
-
-“Shall I go on, sir?”
-
-Another blank.
-
-“Yes, go on.”
-
-“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
-I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
-the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
-laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
-disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
-her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”
-
-The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
-ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
-and cried:
-
-“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”
-
-His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
-Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
-extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
-so received it, and remained silent.
-
-“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
-moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”
-
-He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
-raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
-overshadowed his face:
-
-“Have you spoken to Lucie?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Nor written?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
-to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
-you.”
-
-He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
-
-“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
-Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
-you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
-belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
-can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
-child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
-with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
-is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
-itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
-now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
-years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
-early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
-you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
-hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
-in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
-you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
-neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
-own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
-loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
-have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”
-
-Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
-little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
-
-“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
-with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
-long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
-now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
-your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
-Heaven is my witness that I love her!”
-
-“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
-before now. I believe it.”
-
-“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
-struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
-that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
-put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
-word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
-should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
-a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
-heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
-now touch this honoured hand.”
-
-He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
-
-“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
-you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
-you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
-in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
-life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
-with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
-come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”
-
-His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
-moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
-his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
-conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
-occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
-
-“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
-you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
-you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”
-
-“None. As yet, none.”
-
-“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
-ascertain that, with my knowledge?”
-
-“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
-might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”
-
-“Do you seek any guidance from me?”
-
-“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
-in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”
-
-“Do you seek any promise from me?”
-
-“I do seek that.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
-understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
-innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
-could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”
-
-“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”
-
-“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
-favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
-Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
-word, to save my life.”
-
-“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
-well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
-delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
-respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
-heart.”
-
-“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
-supplied the rest.
-
-“Is sought by any other suitor?”
-
-“It is what I meant to say.”
-
-Her father considered a little before he answered:
-
-“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
-occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”
-
-“Or both,” said Darnay.
-
-“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
-a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”
-
-“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
-part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
-bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
-may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
-me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
-condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
-require, I will observe immediately.”
-
-“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
-your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
-believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
-between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
-that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
-If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”
-
-The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
-the Doctor spoke:
-
-“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
-new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
-thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
-sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
-than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”
-
-So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
-his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
-hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
-
-“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
-“What was it you said to me?”
-
-He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
-condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
-
-“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
-part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
-not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
-why I am in England.”
-
-“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.
-
-“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
-secret from you.”
-
-“Stop!”
-
-For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
-another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
-
-“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
-should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
-promise?”
-
-“Willingly.
-
-“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
-should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”
-
-It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
-darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
-Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
-reading-chair empty.
-
-“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”
-
-Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
-bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
-his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
-blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”
-
-Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
-his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
-her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
-together for a long time.
-
-She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
-slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
-work, were all as usual.
-
-
-
-
-XI. A Companion Picture
-
-
-“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
-jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”
-
-Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
-and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
-a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
-of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
-arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
-November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
-bring grist to the mill again.
-
-Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
-application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
-through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
-the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
-his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
-intervals for the last six hours.
-
-“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
-his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
-his back.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
-surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
-shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”
-
-“_Do_ you?”
-
-“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”
-
-“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“Do I know her?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
-frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
-me to dinner.”
-
-“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
-posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
-because you are such an insensible dog.”
-
-“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
-sensitive and poetical spirit--”
-
-“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
-any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
-I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”
-
-“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”
-
-“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”
-
-“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.
-
-“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
-inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
-be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
-to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”
-
-“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
-way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
-as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
-moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
-hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
-Sydney!”
-
-“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
-be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
-to me.”
-
-“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
-rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
-to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
-fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”
-
-Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
-
-“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
-myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
-Why do I do it?”
-
-“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.
-
-“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
-get on.”
-
-“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
- answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
-to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”
-
-He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
-
-“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
-delivered in no very soothing tone.
-
-“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
-“Who is the lady?”
-
-“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
-Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
-for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
-half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
-make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
-me in slighting terms.”
-
-“I did?”
-
-“Certainly; and in these chambers.”
-
-Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
-drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
-
-“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
-lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
-delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
-little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
-You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
-think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
-a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
-of mine, who had no ear for music.”
-
-Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
-looking at his friend.
-
-“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
-fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
-please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
-will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
-and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
-but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
-astonished?”
-
-“You approve?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”
-
-“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
-you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
-be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
-ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
-enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
-feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
-inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
-that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
-credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
-say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
-know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
-you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
-you really ought to think about a nurse.”
-
-The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
-big as he was, and four times as offensive.
-
-“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
-I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
-you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
-you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
-understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
-respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
-or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
-kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”
-
-“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.
-
-
-
-
-XII. The Fellow of Delicacy
-
-
-Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
-fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
-to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
-debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
-well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
-at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
-before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
-and Hilary.
-
-As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
-saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
-grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
-plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
-plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
-the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
-consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
-case could be.
-
-Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
-proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
-Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
-himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
-
-Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
-while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
-Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
-on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
-along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
-seen how safe and strong he was.
-
-His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
-knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
-Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
-of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
-in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
-cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
-Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
-bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
-under the clouds were a sum.
-
-“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”
-
-It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
-place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
-in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
-squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
-the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
-the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
-
-The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
-recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
-you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
-of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
-hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
-self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
-
-“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
-business character.
-
-“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
-have come for a private word.”
-
-“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
-to the House afar off.
-
-“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
-desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
-be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
-in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
-visitor dubiously.
-
-“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
-What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
-appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
-my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
-Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
-manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
-“you know there really is so much too much of you!”
-
-“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
-opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
-Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”
-
-Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
-end, and bit the feather of a pen.
-
-“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”
-
-“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
-eligible, you are eligible.”
-
-“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.
-
-“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“And advancing?”
-
-“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
-able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”
-
-“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
-perceptibly crestfallen.
-
-“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
-
-“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”
-
-“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
-shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
-have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”
-
-“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
-having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”
-
-“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
-Stryver.
-
-“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
-a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
-complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
-head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
-been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
-
-“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
-when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
-causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
-lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
-young lady. The young lady goes before all.”
-
-“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
-elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
-present in question is a mincing Fool?”
-
-“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
-reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
-from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
-taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
-not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
-this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
-mind.”
-
-The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
-blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
-Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
-no better state now it was his turn.
-
-“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
-be no mistake about it.”
-
-Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
-hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
-toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
-
-“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
-to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
-bar?”
-
-“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”
-
-“Yes, I do.”
-
-“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”
-
-“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
-this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”
-
-“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
-not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
-business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
-Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
-of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
-spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
-may not be right?”
-
-“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
-parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
-in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
-new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”
-
-“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
-understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
-will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
-gentleman breathing.”
-
-“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.
-
-“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
-painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
-Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
-painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
-know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
-the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
-in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
-little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
-it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
-soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
-with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
-best spared. What do you say?”
-
-“How long would you keep me in town?”
-
-“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
-evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”
-
-“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
-hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
-in to-night. Good morning.”
-
-Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
-concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
-bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
-of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
-always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
-believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
-the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
-
-The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
-gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
-moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
-swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
-forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
-out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”
-
-It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
-great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
-Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”
-
-Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
-Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
-purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
-the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
-altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.
-
-“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
-bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
-Soho.”
-
-“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
-thinking of!”
-
-“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
-conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
-advice.”
-
-“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
-am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
-account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
-us say no more about it.”
-
-“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
-final way; “no matter, no matter.”
-
-“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.
-
-“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
-sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
-not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
-done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
-repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
-aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
-a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
-glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
-for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
-have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
-proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
-certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
-that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
-giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
-will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
-I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
-And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
-and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
-you were right, it never would have done.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
-Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
-showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
-“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
-thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”
-
-Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
-was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy
-
-
-If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
-house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
-and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
-cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
-which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
-pierced by the light within him.
-
-And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
-and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
-he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
-transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
-figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
-of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
-in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
-brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
-into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
-him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
-it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
-neighbourhood.
-
-On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
-that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
-delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
-City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
-for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
-those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
-animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
-they took him to the Doctor's door.
-
-He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
-never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
-embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
-his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
-a change in it.
-
-“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
-is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”
-
-“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
-live no better life?”
-
-“God knows it is a shame!”
-
-“Then why not change it?”
-
-Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
-there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
-answered:
-
-“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
-sink lower, and be worse.”
-
-He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
-table trembled in the silence that followed.
-
-She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
-be so, without looking at her, and said:
-
-“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
-what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”
-
-“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
-it would make me very glad!”
-
-“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”
-
-He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
-
-“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
-one who died young. All my life might have been.”
-
-“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
-sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”
-
-“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
-mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
-it!”
-
-She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
-of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
-been holden.
-
-“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
-love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
-poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
-conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
-bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
-disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
-no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
-be.”
-
-“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
-you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
-confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
-little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
-no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
-
-He shook his head.
-
-“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
-little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
-you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
-been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
-home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
-died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
-I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
-old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
-have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
-sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
-a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
-but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
-
-“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
-
-“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
-undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
-weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
-heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
-its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
-service, idly burning away.”
-
-“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
-than you were before you knew me--”
-
-“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
-anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
-
-“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
-attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
-make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
-good, with you, at all?”
-
-“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
-here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
-the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
-and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
-deplore and pity.”
-
-“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
-all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
-and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
-me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
-was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
-alone, and will be shared by no one?”
-
-“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”
-
-“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
-yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”
-
-“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”
-
-He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
-
-“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
-conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
-again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
-the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
-shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
-to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
-in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”
-
-He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
-sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
-down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
-stood looking back at her.
-
-“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
-hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
-but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
-wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
-shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
-what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
-to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”
-
-“I will, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
-you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
-between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
-it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
-you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
-there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
-embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
-me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
-thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
-ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
-and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
-grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
-happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
-beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
-a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”
-
-He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Honest Tradesman
-
-
-To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
-Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
-variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
-upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
-not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
-westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
-both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
-the sun goes down!
-
-With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
-like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
-watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
-running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
-since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
-women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
-Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
-companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
-to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
-have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
-the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
-purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
-
-Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
-the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
-but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
-
-It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
-few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
-unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
-Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
-unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
-attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
-funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
-funeral, which engendered uproar.
-
-“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
-buryin'.”
-
-“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.
-
-The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
-significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
-his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
-
-“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
-to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
-_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
-let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
-hear?”
-
-“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
-
-“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
-harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
-
-His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
-round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
-there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
-considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
-appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
-surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
-incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
- with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
-
-Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
-always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
-Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
-excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
-
-“What is it, brother? What's it about?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
-
-He asked another man. “Who is it?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
-nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
-greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
-
-At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
-against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
-funeral of one Roger Cly.
-
-“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
-Spi--i--ies!”
-
-“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
-assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”
-
-“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
-out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”
-
-The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
-that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
-suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
-so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
-doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
-for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
-that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
-shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
-other symbolical tears.
-
-These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
-enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
-crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
-They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
-out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
-its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
-much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
-the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
-while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
-exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
-was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
-the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
-coach.
-
-The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
-the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
-remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
-members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
-The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
-hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
-close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
-by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
-popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
-ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
-bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
-that part of the procession in which he walked.
-
-Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
-caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
-at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
-was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
-in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
-accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
-highly to its own satisfaction.
-
-The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
-providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
-genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
-passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
-was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
-the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
-they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
-window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
-and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
-been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
-the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
-coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
-the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
-progress of a mob.
-
-Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
-behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
-The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
-neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
-maturely considering the spot.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
-“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
-was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”
-
-Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
-himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
-station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
-his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
-amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
-man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
-his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
-
-Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
-job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
-usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
-
-“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
-entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
-shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
-for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
-
-The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
-
-“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
-angry apprehension.
-
-“I am saying nothing.”
-
-“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
-You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
-yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
-but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
-ironical dissatisfaction.
-
-“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
-bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
-oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
-
-“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
-another bite.
-
-“Yes, I am.”
-
-“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
-
-“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
-where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”
-
-“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”
-
-“Never you mind.”
-
-“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
-
-“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
-gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
-going out, till you've been long abed.”
-
-He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
-most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
-conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
-to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
-conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
-on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
-he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
-person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
-honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
-professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
-
-“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
-honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
-of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
-tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
-on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
-customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”
-
-Then he began grumbling again:
-
-“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
-know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
-flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
-your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
-and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”
-
-This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
-perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
-all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
-function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
-
-Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
-was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
-obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
-solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
-o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
-took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
-forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
-fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
-in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
-extinguished the light, and went out.
-
-Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
-bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
-followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
-court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
-his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
-door stood ajar all night.
-
-Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
-father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
-walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
-honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
-gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
-the two trudged on together.
-
-Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
-winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
-lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
-that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
-second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
-himself into two.
-
-The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
-under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
-brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
-wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
-the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
-Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
-Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
-defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
-He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
-third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
-there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
-and knees.
-
-It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
-holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
-in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
-and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
-that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
-tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
-creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
-fish.
-
-They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
-appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
-Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
-striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
-with his hair as stiff as his father's.
-
-But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
-only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
-were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
-the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
-screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
-strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
-earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
-it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
-wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
-made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
-
-He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
-it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
-to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
-was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
-upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
-and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
-shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
-was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
-roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
-like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
-too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
-to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
-and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
-incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
-got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
-it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
-stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
-his breast when he fell asleep.
-
-From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
-daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
-family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
-inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
-ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
-bed.
-
-“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
-
-“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.
-
-“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
-and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
-you?”
-
-“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.
-
-“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
-honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
-husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”
-
-“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”
-
-“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
-honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
-when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
-wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
-woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
-no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
-of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”
-
-The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
-the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
-at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
-his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
-down too, and fell asleep again.
-
-There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
-Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
-by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
-he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
-and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
-ostensible calling.
-
-Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
-along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
-from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
-solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
-and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
-improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
-that fine morning.
-
-“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
-at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
-Resurrection-Man?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
-should I know?”
-
-“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.
-
-“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
-hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”
-
-“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.
-
-“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
-branch of Scientific goods.”
-
-“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.
-
-“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
-growed up!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
-“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
-your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
-there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
-for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
-to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
-himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
-yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”
-
-
-
-
-XV. Knitting
-
-
-There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
-Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
-through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
-measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
-of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
-he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
-influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
-vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
-Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
-the dregs of it.
-
-This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
-early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
-on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
-brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
-slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
-not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
-were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
-have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
-and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
-looks.
-
-Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
-was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
-threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
-only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
-wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
-and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
-humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
-
-A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
-observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
-at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
-gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
-towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
-of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
-with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
-a long way off.
-
-Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
-high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
-his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
-mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
-the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
-of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
-flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
-followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
-the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
-
-“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
-an answering chorus of “Good day!”
-
-“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.
-
-Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
-their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
-
-“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
-travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
-Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
-He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
-drink, my wife!”
-
-A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
-mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
-and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
-bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
-Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
-
-Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
-than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
-rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
-He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
-Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
-
-“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.
-
-“Yes, thank you.”
-
-“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
-occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”
-
-Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
-courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
-staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
-sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
-
-No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
-gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
-man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
-him through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
-
-“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
-encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
-Speak, Jacques Five!”
-
-The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
-it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”
-
-“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
-commencement.”
-
-“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
-running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
-chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
-going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
-hanging by the chain--like this.”
-
-Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
-he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
-the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
-during a whole year.
-
-Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
-
-“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
-
-Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
-
-“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
-finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
-'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”
-
-“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.
-
-“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
-confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
-offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
-standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
-My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”
-
-“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
-interrupted. “Go on!”
-
-“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
-is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”
-
-“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
-he is unluckily found. Go on!”
-
-“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
-go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
-village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
-coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
-with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”
-
-With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
-elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
-
-“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
-and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
-spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
-see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
-that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
-going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
-their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
-road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
-Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
-with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
-to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
-be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
-on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”
-
-He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
-vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
-
-“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
-show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
-our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
-village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
-follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
-shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
-consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”
-
-He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
-butt-ends of muskets.
-
-“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
-laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
-but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
-the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
-and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
-darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”
-
-He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
-snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
-opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”
-
-“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
-voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
-village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
-locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
-except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
-my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
-my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
-iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
-hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
-dead man.”
-
-Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
-of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
-countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
-authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
-and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
-his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
-intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
-over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
-standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
-light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
-him.
-
-“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.
-
-“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
-at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
-distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
-of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
-faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
-the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
-whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
-executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
-that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
-that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
-It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”
-
-“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
-“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
-yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
-sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
-hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
-his hand.”
-
-“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
-his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
-strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
-food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
-and struck him blows. You hear?”
-
-“I hear, messieurs.”
-
-“Go on then,” said Defarge.
-
-“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
-countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
-the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
-that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
-father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
-parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
-with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
-which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
-poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
-that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
-says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
-the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
-I am not a scholar.”
-
-“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
-and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
-all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
-nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
-the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
-attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
-when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
-done--why, how old are you?”
-
-“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
-
-“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
-it.”
-
-“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
-on.”
-
-“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
-even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
-night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
-the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
-Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
-the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
-water.”
-
-The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
-and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
-
-“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
-the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
-have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
-of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
-a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
-laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
-from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
-fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
-there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”
-
-They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
-on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
-spectacle.
-
-“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
-water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
-I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
-bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
-across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
-messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”
-
-The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
-three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
-
-“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
-and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
-warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
-walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
-you see me!”
-
-After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
-and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
-door?”
-
-“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
-top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
-
-The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
-the garret.
-
-“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”
-
-“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.
-
-“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.
-
-“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”
-
-The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
-gnawing another finger.
-
-“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
-can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
-safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
-be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”
-
-“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
-undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
-a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
-own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
-Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
-to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
-crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”
-
-There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
-hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
-very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”
-
-“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
-easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
-with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
-on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
-Court; let him see them on Sunday.”
-
-“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
-wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”
-
-“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
-to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
-him to bring it down one day.”
-
-Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
-dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
-pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
-asleep.
-
-Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
-in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
-dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
-new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
-unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
-his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
-he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
-contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
-might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
-into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
-murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
-with it until the play was played out.
-
-Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
-(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
-and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
-madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
-additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
-afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
-see the carriage of the King and Queen.
-
-“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.
-
-“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”
-
-“What do you make, madame?”
-
-“Many things.”
-
-“For instance--”
-
-“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”
-
-The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
-of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
-and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
-fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
-and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
-shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
-ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
-and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
-sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
-intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
-Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
-ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
-terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
-more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
-with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
-hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
-and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
-from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
-pieces.
-
-“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
-patron; “you are a good boy!”
-
-The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
-having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
-
-“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
-these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
-insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”
-
-“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”
-
-“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
-stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
-in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
-tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
-deceive them too much.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
-confirmation.
-
-“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
-it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”
-
-“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
-pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
-pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly yes, madame.”
-
-“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
-set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
-you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”
-
-“It is true, madame.”
-
-“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
-a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
-“now, go home!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI. Still Knitting
-
-
-Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
-bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
-darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
-the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
-the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
-the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
-for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
-scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
-stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
-terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
-the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
-village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
-when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
-faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
-up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
-look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
-stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
-was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
-everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
-scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
-crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
-skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
-started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
-who could find a living there.
-
-Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
-stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
-of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
-night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
-world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
-star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
-the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
-the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
-vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
-
-The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
-in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
-journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
-guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
-examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
-of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
-with, and affectionately embraced.
-
-When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
-and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
-picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
-streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
-
-“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
-
-“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
-commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
-can say, but he knows of one.”
-
-“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
-business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
-man?”
-
-“He is English.”
-
-“So much the better. His name?”
-
-“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
-been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
-correctness.
-
-“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”
-
-“John.”
-
-“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
-“Good. His appearance; is it known?”
-
-“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
-complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
-thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
-sinister.”
-
-“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
-registered to-morrow.”
-
-They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
-and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
-the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
-stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
-her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
-dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
-of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
-handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
-night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
-up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
-condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
-walked up and down through life.
-
-The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
-neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
-by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
-it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
-whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
-
-“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
-money. “There are only the usual odours.”
-
-“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.
-
-“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
-never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
-him. “Oh, the men, the men!”
-
-“But my dear!” began Defarge.
-
-“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
-faint of heart to-night, my dear!”
-
-“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
-breast, “it _is_ a long time.”
-
-“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
-Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”
-
-“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
-Defarge.
-
-“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
-the lightning? Tell me.”
-
-Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
-too.
-
-“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
-swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
-earthquake?”
-
-“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.
-
-“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
-before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
-seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”
-
-She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
-
-“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
-“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
-coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
-is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
-that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
-the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
-more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
-you.”
-
-“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
-a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
-attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
-it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
-it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”
-
-“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
-were another enemy strangled.
-
-“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
-“We shall not see the triumph.”
-
-“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
-strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
-my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
-certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
-would--”
-
-Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
-
-“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
-cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”
-
-“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
-and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
-When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
-time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”
-
-Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
-little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
-out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
-manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
-
-Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
-wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
-now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
-usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
-drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
-and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
-perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
-dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
-out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
-themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
-the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
-thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
-
-A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
-felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
-rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
-
-It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
-customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
-wine-shop.
-
-“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.
-
-“Good day, monsieur.”
-
-She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
-“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
-hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
-thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
-expression! Good day, one and all!”
-
-“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
-mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
-
-Madame complied with a polite air.
-
-“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
-
-It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
-Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
-however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
-visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
-of observing the place in general.
-
-“You knit with great skill, madame.”
-
-“I am accustomed to it.”
-
-“A pretty pattern too!”
-
-“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
-
-“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
-
-“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
-fingers moved nimbly.
-
-“Not for use?”
-
-“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
-madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
-coquetry, “I'll use it!”
-
-It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
-decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
-men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
-catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
-looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
-Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
-one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
-but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
-poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
-unimpeachable.
-
-“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
-and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
-'BARSAD' before you go.”
-
-“You have a husband, madame?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“Children?”
-
-“No children.”
-
-“Business seems bad?”
-
-“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
-
-“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”
-
-“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
-extra something into his name that boded him no good.
-
-“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
-Of course.”
-
-“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
-enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
-think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
-it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
-embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”
-
-The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
-not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
-stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
-Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
-
-“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
-Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
-
-“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
-for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
-price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”
-
-“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
-that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
-susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
-is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
-fellow? Between ourselves.”
-
-“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.
-
-“Is there not?”
-
-“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.
-
-As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
-him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
-Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
-
-“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
-confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
-
-“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
-“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”
-
-“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
-day!”
-
-“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.
-
-“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
-you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
-and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”
-
-“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
-of it.”
-
-Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
-hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
-person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
-have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
-attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
-water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
-out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
-it.
-
-“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
- observed Defarge.
-
-“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
-in its miserable inhabitants.”
-
-“Hah!” muttered Defarge.
-
-“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
- pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
-associations with your name.”
-
-“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.
-
-“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
-had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
-informed of the circumstances?”
-
-“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
-to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
-warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
-
-“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
-from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
-monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
-Tellson and Company--over to England.”
-
-“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.
-
-“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
-Manette and his daughter, in England.”
-
-“Yes?” said Defarge.
-
-“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.
-
-“No,” said Defarge.
-
-“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
-song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
-arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
-they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
-no correspondence.”
-
-“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”
-
-“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
-ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”
-
-“Oh! You know I am English.”
-
-“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
-suppose the man is.”
-
-He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
-of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
-end, he added:
-
-“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
-one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
-poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
-going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
-was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
-Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
-Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”
-
-Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
-effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
-as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
-troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
-spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
-
-Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
-worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
-paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
-in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
-pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
-after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
-husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
-come back.
-
-“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
-as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
-said of Ma'amselle Manette?”
-
-“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
-is probably false. But it may be true.”
-
-“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.
-
-“If it is?” repeated his wife.
-
-“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
-sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”
-
-“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
-“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
-to end him. That is all I know.”
-
-“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
-Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
-“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
-husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
-the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”
-
-“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
-madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
-for their merits; that is enough.”
-
-She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
-took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
-Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
-decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
-disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
-shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
-
-In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
-himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
-to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
-Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
-to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
-her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
-knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
-mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
-jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
-the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
-
-But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
-Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
-among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
-behind.
-
-Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
-great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
-grand woman!”
-
-Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
-the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
-the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
-darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
-pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
-thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
-wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
-Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
-knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
-a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
-counting dropping heads.
-
-
-
-
-XVII. One Night
-
-
-Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
-Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
-under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
-radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
-seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
-
-Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
-for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
-
-“You are happy, my dear father?”
-
-“Quite, my child.”
-
-They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
-was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
-in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
-both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
-time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
-
-“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
-love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
-for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
-if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
-the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
-self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”
-
-Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
-
-In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
-upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
-the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
-its going.
-
-“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
-quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
-ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
-own heart, do you feel quite certain?”
-
-Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
-scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
-added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
-seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
-was--without it.”
-
-“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”
-
-“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
-it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
-fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
-wasted--”
-
-She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
-the word.
-
-“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
-natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
-comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
-how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”
-
-“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
-with you.”
-
-He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
-without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
-
-“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
-Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
-should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
-cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”
-
-It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
-refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
-sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
-afterwards.
-
-“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
-“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
-light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
-of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
-my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
-that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
-could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
-with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
-manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
-and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”
-
-The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
-deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
-the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
-cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
-
-“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
-child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
-been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
-was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
-imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
-was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
-to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
-will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
-
-She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
-
-“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
-me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
-cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
-to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
-the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
-blank.”
-
-“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
-never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
-
-“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
-brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
-the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”
-
-“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”
-
-“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
-have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
-like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
-foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
-leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
-image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
-her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
-But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”
-
-“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”
-
-“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
-sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
-and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
-that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
-have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
-I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
-perplexed distinctions.”
-
-His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
-cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
-
-“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
-coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
-life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
-was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
-cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”
-
-“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
-that was I.”
-
-“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
-they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
-a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
-up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
-imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
-But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
-blessed her.”
-
-“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
-me as fervently to-morrow?”
-
-“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
-for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
-happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
-happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”
-
-He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
-Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
-house.
-
-There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
-be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
-change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
-by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
-apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
-
-Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
-three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
-was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
-little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
-
-So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
-But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
-downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
-beforehand.
-
-All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
-asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
-hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
-shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
-then, leaned over him, and looked at him.
-
-Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
-covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
-mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
-resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
-beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
-
-She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
-she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
-sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
-more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
-of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
-in praying for him.
-
-
-
-
-XVIII. Nine Days
-
-
-The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
-closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
-Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
-Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
-reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
-but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
-have been the bridegroom.
-
-“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
-and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
-pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
-you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
-what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
-on my friend Mr. Charles!”
-
-“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
-therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”
-
-“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”
-
-“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
-on occasion.)
-
-“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
-a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
-anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
-Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
-I couldn't see it.”
-
-“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
-had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
-invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
-speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
-might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”
-
-“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.
-
-“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
-gentleman of that name.
-
-“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
-
-“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
-seems probable, too.”
-
-“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
-were put in your cradle.”
-
-“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
-with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
-pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
-her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
-I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
-opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
-your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
-own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
-fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
-shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
-the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
-your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
-him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
-Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
-old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
-own.”
-
-For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
-well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
-golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
-delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
-
-The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
-Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
-went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
-But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
-shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
-old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
-wind.
-
-He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
-which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
-another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
-eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
-
-Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
-group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
-glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
-dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
-breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
-mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
-mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
-door at parting.
-
-It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
-cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
-enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”
-
-And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
-gone.
-
-The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
-preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
-and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
-the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
-change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
-there, had struck him a poisoned blow.
-
-He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
-expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
-the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
-manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
-room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
-wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
-
-“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
-think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
-I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
-presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
-there, and all will be well.”
-
-It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
-Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
-old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
-into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
-
-“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”
-
-Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
-lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
-He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”
-
-Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
-Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
-when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
-down, and he was very busy.
-
-“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”
-
-The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
-were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.
-
-He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
-throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
-haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
-hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
-shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
-him, and asked what it was.
-
-“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
-ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”
-
-“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”
-
-He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
-his work.
-
-“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
-occupation. Think, dear friend!”
-
-Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
-a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
-a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
-words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
-the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
-he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
-seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
-trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.
-
-Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
-all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
-the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
-conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
-precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
-few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
-on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
-called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
-two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
-addressed to her by the same post.
-
-These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
-the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
-another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
-thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
-
-In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
-being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
-attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
-therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
-first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
-room.
-
-He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
-to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
-attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
-before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
-fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
-window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
-natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
-
-Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
-that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
-after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
-When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
-and said to him:
-
-“Will you go out?”
-
-He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
-looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
-
-“Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
-Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
-with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
-some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
-business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
-
-Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
-at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
-time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
-fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
-bench and to work.
-
-On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
-and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
-returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
-that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
-to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
-at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
-present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
-amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
-enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
-friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
-appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
-him.
-
-When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
-
-“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”
-
-As before, he repeated, “Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
-from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
-meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
-sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
-slipped away to his bench.
-
-The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
-heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
-The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
-seven days, eight days, nine days.
-
-With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
-heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
-well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
-observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
-was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
-his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
-the dusk of the ninth evening.
-
-
-
-
-XIX. An Opinion
-
-
-Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
-tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
-into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
-night.
-
-He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
-done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
-Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
-and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
-at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
-Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
-studious and attentive.
-
-Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
-giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
-not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
-friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
-as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
-which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
-
-It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
-answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
-corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
-How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
-Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
-Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?
-
-Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
-had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
-resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
-He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
-breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
-had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
-Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
-the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
-
-Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
-out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
-toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
-white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
-usual way, and came to breakfast.
-
-So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
-delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
-advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
-place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
-the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
-counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
-he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
-he sought. And that aid was his own.
-
-Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
-Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
-
-“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
-very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
-very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
-so.”
-
-Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
-Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
-at his hands more than once.
-
-“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
-arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
-give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
-for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”
-
-“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
-shock--?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”
-
-Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
-
-“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
-of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
-the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
-shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
-long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
-are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
-which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
-himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
-the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
-be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
-great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
-stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
-there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”
-
-The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”
-
-“Nine days and nights.”
-
-“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
-resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”
-
-“That is the fact.”
-
-“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
-collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
-originally?”
-
-“Once.”
-
-“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
-respects--as he was then?”
-
-“I think in all respects.”
-
-“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”
-
-“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
-It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”
-
-The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
-very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
-the two spoke for a little while.
-
-“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
-considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
-and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
-possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
-intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
-I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
-relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
-be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
-about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
-more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
-if I knew how.
-
-“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
-knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
-able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
-Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
-and teach me how to be a little more useful.”
-
-Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
-Mr. Lorry did not press him.
-
-“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
-“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
-unforeseen by its subject.”
-
-“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
-
-“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
-
-“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
-mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
-himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”
-
-“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
-upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
-him?”
-
-“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
-believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”
-
-“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
-after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
-attack?”
-
-“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
-extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
-was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
-distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
-there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
-would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
-particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
-effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”
-
-“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
-with natural hesitation.
-
-The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
-answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
-
-“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
-
-“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
-great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
-should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
-something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
-and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
-the worst was over.”
-
-“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
-
-“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
-be instructed. I may go on?”
-
-“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
-hand.
-
-“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
-he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
-knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
-he do too much?”
-
-“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
-singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
-part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
-things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
-direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”
-
-“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
-
-“I think I am quite sure of it.”
-
-“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”
-
-“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
-violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
-
-“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
-that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
-disorder?”
-
-“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
-firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
-association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
-extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
-happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
-such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
-believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”
-
-He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
-would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
-confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
-endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
-confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
-really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
-be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
-conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
-last nine days, he knew that he must face it.
-
-“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
-so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
-will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
-case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
-time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
-found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
-him?”
-
-The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
-nervously on the ground.
-
-“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
-his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”
-
-Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
-ground.
-
-“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
-understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
-shook his head, and stopped.
-
-“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
-“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
-of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
-occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
-his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
-the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
-practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
-torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
-quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
-himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
-of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
-find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
-fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
-
-He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
-face.
-
-“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
-who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
-bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
-the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
-with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
-forge?”
-
-There was another silence.
-
-“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
-companion.”
-
-“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
-in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
-sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
-Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
-sake, my dear Manette!”
-
-Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
-
-“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
-it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
-let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
-passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
-three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
-day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
-had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
-explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
-she had no suspicions.
-
-On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
-his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
-carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
-guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
-Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
-which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
-burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
-purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
-shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
-and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
-while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
-traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
-crime.
-
-
-
-
-XX. A Plea
-
-
-When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
-offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
-many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
-in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
-about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
-
-He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
-speaking to him when no one overheard.
-
-“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
-
-“We are already friends, I hope.”
-
-“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
-mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
-friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
-
-Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
-good-fellowship, what he did mean?
-
-“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
-in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
-remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
-usual?”
-
-“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
-you had been drinking.”
-
-“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
-always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
-when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
-preach.”
-
-“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
-to me.”
-
-“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
-away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
-you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
-wish you would forget it.”
-
-“I forgot it long ago.”
-
-“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
-me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
-and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
-
-“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
-for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
-surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
-faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
-Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
-remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”
-
-“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
-you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
-don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
-say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”
-
-“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
-quarrel with _your_ light answer.”
-
-“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
-I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
-incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
-ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”
-
-“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
-
-“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
-any good, and never will.”
-
-“I don't know that you 'never will.'”
-
-“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
-to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
-reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
-permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
-be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
-resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
-furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
-doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
-should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
-dare say, to know that I had it.”
-
-“Will you try?”
-
-“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
-indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”
-
-“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
-
-They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
-afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
-
-When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
-Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
-this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
-problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
-bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
-him as he showed himself.
-
-He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
-wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
-her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
-marked.
-
-“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
-
-“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
-and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
-to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”
-
-“What is it, my Lucie?”
-
-“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
-ask it?”
-
-“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
-
-What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
-cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
-
-“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
-respect than you expressed for him to-night.”
-
-“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
-
-“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”
-
-“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”
-
-“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
-lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
-he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
-wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”
-
-“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
-astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
-of him.”
-
-“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
-scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
-now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
-even magnanimous things.”
-
-She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
-that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
-
-“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
-head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
-we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”
-
-The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
-Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”
-
-He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
-her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
-could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
-of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
-that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
-have parted from his lips for the first time--
-
-“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI. Echoing Footsteps
-
-
-A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
-the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
-her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
-companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
-the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
-years.
-
-At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
-when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
-dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
-afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
-Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
-doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
-her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
-footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
-be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
-eyes, and broke like waves.
-
-That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
-advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
-her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
-mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
-the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
-children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
-her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
-joy to her.
-
-Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
-weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
-their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
-echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
-step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
-Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
-unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
-plane-tree in the garden!
-
-Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
-harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
-pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
-smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
-leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
-tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
-departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
-forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
-
-Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
-echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
-of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
-mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
-murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
-the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
-dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
-the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
-
-The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
-half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
-uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
-done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
-regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
-all true echoes for ages and ages.
-
-No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
-blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
-but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
-delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
-such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
-was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
-and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
-him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”
-
-Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
-forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
-his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
-in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
-life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
-stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
-it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
-state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
-rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
-property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
-but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
-
-These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
-offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
-sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
-Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
-bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
-rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
-Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
-training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
-pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
-declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
-Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
-diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
-to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
-parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
-latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
-it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
-originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
-off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
-
-These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
-amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
-daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
-child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
-and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
-Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
-with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
-waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
-in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
-more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
-many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
-to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
-the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
-as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
-have too much to do?”
-
-But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
-in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
-little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
-as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
-
-On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
-Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
-her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
-all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
-lightning from the same place.
-
-“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
-I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
-business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
-to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
-run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
-to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
-among some of them for sending it to England.”
-
-“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--
-
-“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
-there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
-getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
-without due occasion.”
-
-“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”
-
-“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
-himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
-am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
-Manette?”
-
-“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
-
-“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
-which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
-reason. You are not going out, I hope?”
-
-“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
-Doctor.
-
-“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
-pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
-see.”
-
-“Of course, it has been kept for you.”
-
-“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”
-
-“And sleeping soundly.”
-
-“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
-otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
-all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
-come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
-the echoes about which you have your theory.”
-
-“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”
-
-“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
-are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”
-
-Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
-life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
-footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
-the dark London window.
-
-Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
-heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
-heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
-roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
-struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
-all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
-weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
-
-Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
-agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
-heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
-have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
-powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
-weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
-could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
-force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
-heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
-Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
-with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
-
-As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
-circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
-had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
-already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
-thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
-another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
-
-“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
-One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
-patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”
-
-“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
-knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
-in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
-and a cruel knife.
-
-“Where do you go, my wife?”
-
-“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
-of women, by-and-bye.”
-
-“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
-friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”
-
-With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
-into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
-depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
-beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
-began.
-
-Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
-towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
-the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
-a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
-wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
-
-Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
-cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
-all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
-Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
-the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
-wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
-
-“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
-the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
-cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
-revenge.
-
-Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
-drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
-displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
-weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
-at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
-execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
-furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
-single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
-towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
-by the service of Four fierce hours.
-
-A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
-perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
-the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
-wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
-walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
-
-So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
-draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
-struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
-outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
-made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
-Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
-inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
-exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
-furious dumb-show.
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-“The Records!”
-
-“The secret cells!”
-
-“The instruments of torture!”
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
-the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
-eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
-billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
-threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
-undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
-these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
-hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
-wall.
-
-“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
-there is no one there.”
-
-“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
-Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“The meaning, monsieur?”
-
-“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
-shall strike you dead?”
-
-“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
-
-“Monsieur, it is a cell.”
-
-“Show it me!”
-
-“Pass this way, then.”
-
-Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
-by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
-held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
-been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
-as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
-noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
-its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
-outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
-occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
-air like spray.
-
-Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
-hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
-and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
-waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
-linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
-there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
-but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
-tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
-and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
-to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
-come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
-
-The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
-the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
-in:
-
-“One hundred and five, North Tower!”
-
-There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
-with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
-stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
-across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
-on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
-the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
-
-“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
-Defarge to the turnkey.
-
-The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
-
-“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”
-
-“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
-
-“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
-with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
-wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
-a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
-me!”
-
-He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
-exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
-table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
-
-“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
-among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
- throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
-light higher, you!”
-
-With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
-peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
-and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
-and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
-in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
-into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
-cautious touch.
-
-“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”
-
-“Nothing.”
-
-“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
-them, you!”
-
-The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
-again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
-retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
-of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
-more.
-
-They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
-Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
-upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
-Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
-judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
-blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
-unavenged.
-
-In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
-encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
-decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
-woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
-“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
-remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
-the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
-close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
-be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
-long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
-when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
-upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.
-
-The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
-of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
-Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
-iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
-governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
-where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
-the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
-means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
-swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
-
-The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
-of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
-were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
-voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
-until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
-
-But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
-in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
-fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
-more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
-released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
-overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
-Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
-Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
-drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
-faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
-faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
-lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
-IT!”
-
-Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
-accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
-and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
-hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
-Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
-hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
-and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
-and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
-at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
-stained red.
-
-
-
-
-XXII. The Sea Still Rises
-
-
-Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
-his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
-the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
-Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
-Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
-Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
-themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
-portentously elastic swing with them.
-
-Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
-contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
-knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
-of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
-the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
-hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
-but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
-destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
-before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
-The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
-they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
-the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
-last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.
-
-Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
-to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
-sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
-grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
-already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
-
-“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”
-
-As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
-Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
-murmur came rushing along.
-
-“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”
-
-Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
-around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
- Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
-mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
-sprung to their feet.
-
-“Say then, my husband. What is it?”
-
-“News from the other world!”
-
-“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”
-
-“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
-that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”
-
-“Everybody!” from all throats.
-
-“The news is of him. He is among us!”
-
-“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”
-
-“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
-to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
-found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
-seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
-said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”
-
-Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
-never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
-could have heard the answering cry.
-
-A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
-steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
-was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
-
-“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”
-
-Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
-in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
-The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
-her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
-house, rousing the women.
-
-The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
-from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
-the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
-such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
-children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
-famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
-another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
-Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
-Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
-these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
-alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
-who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
-to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
-breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
-suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
-knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
-and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
-Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
-Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
-him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
-whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
-dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
-belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
-
-Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
-the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
-his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
-of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
-such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
-a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
-wailing children.
-
-No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
-this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
-open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
-and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
-from him in the Hall.
-
-“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
-with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
-Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
-under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
-
-The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
-her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
-others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
-clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
-and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
-expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
-a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
-wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
-to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
-telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
-
-At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
-protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
-too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
-stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
-him!
-
-It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
-had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
-wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
-her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
-had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
-perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
-out! Bring him to the lamp!”
-
-Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
-his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
-and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
-face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
-entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
-action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
-another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
-a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
-of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
-might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
-while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
-screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
-him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
-held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
-mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
-
-Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
-and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
-the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
-people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
-five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
-on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
-breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
-pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
-through the streets.
-
-Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
-wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
-long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
-they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
-embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
-again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
-frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
-slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
-common, afterwards supping at their doors.
-
-Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
-most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
-some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
-cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
-share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
-and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
-hoped.
-
-It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
-knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
-husky tones, while fastening the door:
-
-“At last it is come, my dear!”
-
-“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
-
-Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
-her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
-only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
-Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
-the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
-was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
-Antoine's bosom.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII. Fire Rises
-
-
-There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
-the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
-highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
-poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
-crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
-but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
-them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
-be what he was ordered.
-
-Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
-Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
-shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
-dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
-animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
-out.
-
-Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
-blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
-luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
-nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
-things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
-Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
-be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
-was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
-flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
-its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
-to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
-unaccountable.
-
-But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
-it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
-it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
-of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
-the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
-of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
-the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
-disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
-beautifying features of Monseigneur.
-
-For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
-dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
-to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
-thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
-he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
-and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
-foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
-a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
-without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
-aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
-mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
-highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
-with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
-
-Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
-as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
-could get from a shower of hail.
-
-The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
-and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
-in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
-intelligible:
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?”
-
-“All well, Jacques.”
-
-“Touch then!”
-
-They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
-
-“No dinner?”
-
-“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
-
-“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”
-
-He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
-steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
-it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
-thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
-
-“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
-time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
-
-“To-night?” said the mender of roads.
-
-“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
-
-“Where?”
-
-“Here.”
-
-He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
-one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
-of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
-
-“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
-
-“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
-here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”
-
-“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
-over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
-Well?”
-
-“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
-village.”
-
-“Good. When do you cease to work?”
-
-“At sunset.”
-
-“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
-resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
-wake me?”
-
-“Surely.”
-
-The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
-great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
-was fast asleep directly.
-
-As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
-away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
-by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
-now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
-heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
-his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
-The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
-red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
-beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
-and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
-of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
-footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
-with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
-leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
-sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
-secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
-with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
-Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
-drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
-this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
-looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
-obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
-
-The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
-brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
-of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
-them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
-the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
-to go down into the village, roused him.
-
-“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
-summit of the hill?”
-
-“About.”
-
-“About. Good!”
-
-The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
-according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
-squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
-appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
-When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
-as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
-curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
-together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
-looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
-chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
-alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
-chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
-the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
-to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
-
-The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
-solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
-the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
-flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
-swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
-the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
-stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
-had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
-heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
-branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
-lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
-was black again.
-
-But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
-visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
-Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
-picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
-and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
-Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
-stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
-
-A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
-there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
-spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
-space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
-Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
-impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
-mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
-with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
-sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.
-
-The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
-through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
-the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
-removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
-chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
-timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
-looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
-of lips, “It must burn.”
-
-As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
-village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
-fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
-lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
-every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
-occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
-Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
-that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
-authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
-and that post-horses would roast.
-
-The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
-raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
-infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
-and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
-torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
-two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
-again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
-and contending with the fire.
-
-The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
-scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
-figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
-lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
-dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
-heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
-splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
-birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
-trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
-roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
-destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
-abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.
-
-Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
-bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
-the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
-of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
-days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
-house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
-Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
-with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
-withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
-resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
-of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
-parapet, and crush a man or two below.
-
-Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
-distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
-combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
-ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
-which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
-A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
-the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
-Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
-rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
-and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
-while.
-
-Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
-other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
-the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
-had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
-less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
-functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
-in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
-North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
-The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
-no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
-successfully.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
-In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
-the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
-flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
-the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
-of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
-tissue of the life of her home.
-
-Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
-the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
-feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
-a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
-danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
-in.
-
-Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
-his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
-to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
-this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
-infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
-ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
-boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
-and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
-sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
-
-The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
-mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
-eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
-Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
-out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
-outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
-all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
-“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
-
-The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
-come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
-
-As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
-Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
-haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
-without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
-Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
-to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
-house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
-from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
-storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
-provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
-by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
-from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
-a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
-time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
-was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
-consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
-out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
-through Temple Bar to read.
-
-On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
-Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
-penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
-the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
-hour or so of the time of closing.
-
-“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
-Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”
-
-“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
-disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
-
-“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
-some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
-enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
-upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
-interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
-disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
-House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
-old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
-long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
-myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
-these years, who ought to be?”
-
-“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
-and like one thinking aloud.
-
-“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
-Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
-are a wise counsellor.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
-thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
-my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
-the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
-here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
-and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
-after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
-
-“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
-are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
-France at this time of day!”
-
-“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
-more to the purpose that you say you are.”
-
-“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
-glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
-conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
-of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
-Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
-of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
-might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
-afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
-with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
-getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
-precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
-I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
-bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
-the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
-
-“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
-the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
-Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
-impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
-to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
-whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
-every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
-the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
-as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
-
-“And do you really go to-night?”
-
-“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
-delay.”
-
-“And do you take no one with you?”
-
-“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
-to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
-bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
-Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
-of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
-master.”
-
-“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
-youthfulness.”
-
-“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
-commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
-live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
-
-This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
-Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
-would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
-much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
-was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
-terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
-the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
-omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
-millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
-should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
-years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
-vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
-restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
-and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
-without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
-such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
-in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
-already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
-
-Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
-way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
-to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
-them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
-accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
-of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
-with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
-going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
-word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
-
-The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
-before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
-whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
-that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
-name. The address, turned into English, ran:
-
-“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
-France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
-London, England.”
-
-On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
-express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
-be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
-between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
-suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
-
-“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
-I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
-gentleman is to be found.”
-
-The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
-was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
-held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
-person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
-it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
-and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
-English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
-
-“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
-polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
-knew him.”
-
-“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
-been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
-hay--“some years ago.”
-
-“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
-through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
-Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
-the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
-
-“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
-fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
-
-Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
-the shoulder, and said:
-
-“I know the fellow.”
-
-“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
-times.”
-
-“But I do ask why?”
-
-“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
-hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
-who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
-ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
-that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
-man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
-because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
-why.”
-
-Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
-said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”
-
-“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
-Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
-understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
-tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
-to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
-gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
-“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
-find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
-precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
-of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
-
-With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
-shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
-his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
-in the general departure from the Bank.
-
-“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
-deliver it?”
-
-“I do.”
-
-“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
-addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
-that it has been here some time?”
-
-“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
-
-“From here, at eight.”
-
-“I will come back, to see you off.”
-
-Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
-Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
-letter, and read it. These were its contents:
-
-
-“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
-
-“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
-
-“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
-village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
-brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
-great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
-ground.
-
-“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
-life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
-the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
-emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
-against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
-before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
-imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
-had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
-an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
-
-“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
-emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
-not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
-ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
-
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
-succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
-Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
-
-“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
-nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
-assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
-
-“Your afflicted,
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-
-The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
-by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
-only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
-reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
-considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
-
-He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
-the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
-resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
-conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
-he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
-his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
-mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
-systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
-do it, and that it had never been done.
-
-The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
-always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
-which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
-annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
-following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
-these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
-without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
-the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
-until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
-France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
-confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
-was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
-France that might impeach him for it.
-
-But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
-far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
-relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
-favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
-bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
-on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
-there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
-in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
-the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
-own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
-
-This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
-that he would go to Paris.
-
-Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
-him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
-to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
-him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
-attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
-worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
-could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
-trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
-and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
-him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
-brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
-(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
-which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
-coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
-letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
-justice, honour, and good name.
-
-His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
-
-Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
-struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
-with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
-it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
-gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
-it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
-sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
-saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
-Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
-
-As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
-neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
-Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
-reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
-should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
-the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
-situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
-to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
-discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
-in his course.
-
-He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
-return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
-in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
-nothing of his intention now.
-
-A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
-booted and equipped.
-
-“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
-would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
-perhaps you will take a verbal one?”
-
-“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”
-
-“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
-
-“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
-hand.
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
-
-“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
-
-“Any time mentioned?”
-
-“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
-
-“Any person mentioned?”
-
-“No.”
-
-He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
-and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
-misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
-Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
- Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
-rolled away.
-
-That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
-two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
-he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
-that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
-personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
-their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
-strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
-in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
-
-It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
-reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
-preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
-But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
-resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
-so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
-the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
-scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
-(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
-of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
-streets, with a heavier heart.
-
-The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
-and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
-two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
-midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
-his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
-floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
-
-
-The end of the second book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
-
-
-
-I. In Secret
-
-
-The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
-England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
-ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
-horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
-unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
-but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
-these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
-citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
-of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
-inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
-turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
-hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
-Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
-Death.
-
-A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
-Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
-was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
-at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
-Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
-the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
-the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
-watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
-or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
-felt his freedom more completely gone.
-
-This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
-times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
-riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
-by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
-days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
-a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
-
-Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
-prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
-guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
-to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
-a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
-had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
-
-Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
-red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
-
-“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
-under an escort.”
-
-“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
-dispense with the escort.”
-
-“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
-of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”
-
-“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
-are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”
-
-“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.
-
-“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
-not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”
-
-“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
-and dress yourself, emigrant.”
-
-Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
-patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
-a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
-started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.
-
-The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
-cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
-side of him.
-
-The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
-his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
-wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
-faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
-and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
-change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
-between them and the capital.
-
-They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
-lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
-that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
-shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
-being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
-as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
-his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
-that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
-he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
-of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
-confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
-
-But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
-when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
-himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
-gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
-out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”
-
-He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
-resuming it as his safest place, said:
-
-“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
-will?”
-
-“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
-furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
-aristocrat!”
-
-The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
-bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
-be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”
-
-“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
-as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.
-
-Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
-yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
-the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
-voice heard:
-
-“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
-traitor.”
-
-“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
-is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”
-
-At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
-another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
-horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
-and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
-struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
-more was done.
-
-“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
-postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
-
-“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”
-
-“When passed?”
-
-“On the fourteenth.”
-
-“The day I left England!”
-
-“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
-others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
-condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
-your life was not your own.”
-
-“But there are no such decrees yet?”
-
-“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
-may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”
-
-They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
-then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
-wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
-unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
-lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
-cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
-would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
-circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
-up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
-Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
-into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
-wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
-that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
-the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
-way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
-
-Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
-closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
-
-“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
-in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
-
-Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
-speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
-in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
-imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.
-
-“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
-whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
-
-The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
-eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
-disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
-
-He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
-into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
-gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
-Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
-patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
-into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
-traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
-people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
-to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
-forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
-filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
-their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
-ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
-about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
-and women.
-
-When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
-things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
-who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
-escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
-to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
-turned and rode away without entering the city.
-
-He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
-and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
-drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
-waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
-light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
-the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
-uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
-officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
-
-“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
-paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
-
-“This is the man.”
-
-“Your age, Evremonde?”
-
-“Thirty-seven.”
-
-“Married, Evremonde?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Where married?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
-Force.”
-
-“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
-
-The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
-
-“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
-said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
-
-“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
-to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
-demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
-my right?”
-
-“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
-wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
-sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”
-
-Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
-him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
-them.
-
-“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
-guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
-Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
-
-“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
-Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”
-
-“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”
-
-The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
-with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
-and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”
-
-“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
-truth?”
-
-“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
-looking straight before him.
-
-“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
-sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
-little help?”
-
-“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
-
-“Will you answer me a single question?”
-
-“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”
-
-“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
-communication with the world outside?”
-
-“You will see.”
-
-“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
-presenting my case?”
-
-“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
-in worse prisons, before now.”
-
-“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”
-
-Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
-and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
-there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
-He, therefore, made haste to say:
-
-“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
-than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
-Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
-the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
-prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”
-
-“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
-my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
-I will do nothing for you.”
-
-Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
-was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
-how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
-streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
-their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
-otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
-more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
-going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
-passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
-audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
-family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
-it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
-foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
-Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
-watchfulness had completely isolated him.
-
-That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
-developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
-perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
-yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
-might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
-of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
-the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
-was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
-hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
-rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
-garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
-been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
-called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
-of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
-probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
-they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
-
-Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
-from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
-certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
-his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
-arrived at the prison of La Force.
-
-A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
-presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”
-
-“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
-bloated face.
-
-Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
-with his two fellow-patriots.
-
-“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
-“How many more!”
-
-The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
-replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
-responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
-the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
-conclusion.
-
-The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
-horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
-flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
-are ill cared for!
-
-“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
-if I was not already full to bursting!”
-
-He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
-awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
-fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
-either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
-subordinates.
-
-“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
-emigrant.”
-
-Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
-corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
-until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
-prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
-and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
-most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
-room.
-
-In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
-disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
-unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
-receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
-all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
-
-So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
-gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
-misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
-in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
-of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
-frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
-waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
-that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
-
-It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
-gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
-in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
-coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
-there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
-mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
-likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
-utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
-of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
-
-“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
-gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
-honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
-on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
-happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
-to ask your name and condition?”
-
-Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
-words as suitable as he could find.
-
-“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
-eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”
-
-“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
-so.”
-
-“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
-members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
-but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
-the society--in secret.”
-
-There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
-to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
-which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
-him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
-render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
-the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
-
-The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
-ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
-them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
-solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
-
-“Yours,” said the gaoler.
-
-“Why am I confined alone?”
-
-“How do I know!”
-
-“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”
-
-“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
-present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”
-
-There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
-the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
-walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
-the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
-was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
-a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
-gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
-dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
-with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
-is the first condition of the body after death.”
-
-“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
-paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
-counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
-drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
-shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
-paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
-“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
-them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
-embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
-hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
-through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
-made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
-a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
-his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
-and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
-still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
-knew, in the swell that rose above them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Grindstone
-
-
-Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
-in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
-the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
-a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
-troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
-mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
-metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
-of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
-besides the cook in question.
-
-Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
-sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
-willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
-indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
-house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
-things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
-precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
-of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
-Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
-drinking brandy in its state apartments.
-
-A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
-would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
-For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
-said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
-over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
-Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
-linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
-night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
-Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
-the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
-also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
-provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
-exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
-taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
-
-What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
-lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
-Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
-and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
-Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
-the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
-a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
-prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
-deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
-room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.
-
-He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
-he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
-derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
-building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
-that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
-his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
-was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
-of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
-great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
-open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
-to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
-or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
-objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
-opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
-he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.
-
-From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
-the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
-in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
-nature were going up to Heaven.
-
-“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
-dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
-who are in danger!”
-
-Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
-“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
-irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
-clash again, and all was quiet.
-
-The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
-uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
-awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
-go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
-opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
-amazement.
-
-Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
-that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
-seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
-force and power to it in this one passage of her life.
-
-“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
-matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
-What is it?”
-
-With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
-out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”
-
-“Your husband, Lucie?”
-
-“Charles.”
-
-“What of Charles?”
-
-“Here.
-
-“Here, in Paris?”
-
-“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
-collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
-us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”
-
-The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
-bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
-came pouring into the courtyard.
-
-“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
-don't touch the blind!”
-
-The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
-said, with a cool, bold smile:
-
-“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
-a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
-France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
-touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
-My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
-barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
-knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
-told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
-dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
-terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
-having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
-this fatal place. What prison is he in?”
-
-“La Force!”
-
-“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
-your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
-do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
-I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
-you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
-to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
-instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
-room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
-two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
-delay.”
-
-“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
-nothing else than this. I know you are true.”
-
-The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
-key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
-partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
-looked out with him into the courtyard.
-
-Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
-enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
-people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
-had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
-there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
-
-But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
-
-The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
-men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
-the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
-the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
-False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
-hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
-howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
-sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
-forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
-held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
-blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
-struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
-fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
-the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
-sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
-over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
-upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
-and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
-and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
-sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
-the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
-of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
-as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
-of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
-their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
-given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
-
-All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
-any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
-were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
-explanation in his friend's ashy face.
-
-“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
-the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
-say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
-have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
-may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”
-
-Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
-and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
-
-His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
-confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
-carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
-For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
-the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
-surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
-linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
-cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
-kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
-the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.
-
-He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
-and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
-assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
-her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
-surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
-watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
-
-Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
-clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
-bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
-charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
-the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
-
-Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
-irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
-“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
-sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
-and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”
-
-Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
-Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
-from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
-besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
-to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
-the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
-Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
-the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
-climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
-dainty cushions.
-
-The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
-and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
-alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
-never given, and would never take away.
-
-
-
-
-III. The Shadow
-
-
-One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
-Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
-imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
-the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
-for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
-he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
-man of business.
-
-At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
-the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
-the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
-same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
-most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
-its dangerous workings.
-
-Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
-tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
-that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
-Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
-this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
-he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
-went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
-in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
-of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
-
-To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
-giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
-He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
-considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
-A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
-and heavily the day lagged on with him.
-
-It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
-was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
-do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
-man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
-addressed him by his name.
-
-“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”
-
-He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
-to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
-emphasis, the words:
-
-“Do you know me?”
-
-“I have seen you somewhere.”
-
-“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”
-
-Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
-Manette?”
-
-“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”
-
-“And what says he? What does he send me?”
-
-Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
-words in the Doctor's writing:
-
- “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
- I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
- from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.”
-
-It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
-
-“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
-this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”
-
-“Yes,” returned Defarge.
-
-Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
-way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
-courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
-
-“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
-the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
-
-“It is she,” observed her husband.
-
-“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
-they moved.
-
-“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
-It is for their safety.”
-
-Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
-at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
-The Vengeance.
-
-They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
-ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
-and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
-tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
-delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
-the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
-
- “DEAREST,--Take courage. I am well, and your father has
- influence around me. You cannot answer this.
- Kiss our child for me.”
-
-That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
-it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
-hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
-action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
-to its knitting again.
-
-There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
-the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
-neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
-eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
-
-“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
-risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
-trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
-to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
-may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
-reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
-upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”
-
-Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
-gruff sound of acquiescence.
-
-“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
-propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
-good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
-French.”
-
-The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
-match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
-appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
-whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
-_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
-Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
-
-“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
-first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
-were the finger of Fate.
-
-“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
-daughter, and only child.”
-
-The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
-threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
-kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
-shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
-threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.
-
-“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
-may go.”
-
-But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
-presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
-she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:
-
-“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
-help me to see him if you can?”
-
-“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
-down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
-who is my business here.”
-
-“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
-will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
-afraid of you than of these others.”
-
-Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
-Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
-collected his face into a sterner expression.
-
-“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
-Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
-influence?”
-
-“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
-breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
-much influence around him.”
-
-“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”
-
-“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
-have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
-my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
-of me. As a wife and mother!”
-
-Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
-turning to her friend The Vengeance:
-
-“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
-as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
-known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
-often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
-themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
-sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”
-
-“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.
-
-“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
-again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
-and mother would be much to us now?”
-
-She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
-went last, and closed the door.
-
-“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
-courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
-late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”
-
-“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
-shadow on me and on all my hopes.”
-
-“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
-little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”
-
-But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
-for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Calm in Storm
-
-
-Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
-absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
-kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
-not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
-know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
-ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
-darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
-tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
-the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
-some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
-which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
-scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
-found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
-brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
-to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
-to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
-had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
-years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
-body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
-man was Defarge.
-
-That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
-that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
-to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
-dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
-and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
-a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
-to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
-examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
-the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
-to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
-the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
-the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
-inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
-was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
-Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
-assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
-delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
-often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
-had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
-
-The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
-intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
-saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
-those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
-been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
-thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
-the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
-in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
-of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
-awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
-with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
-carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
-anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
-with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
-
-As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
-his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
-such dread experiences would revive the old danger.
-
-But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
-at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
-felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
-he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
-could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
-“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
-As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
-helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
-of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
-the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
-of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
-clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
-had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
-
-Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
-have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
-in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
-of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
-personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
-of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
-that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
-general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
-messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
-sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
-not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
-plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
-known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.
-
-This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
-sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
-Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
-but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
-time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
-and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
-Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
-that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
-ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
-that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
-trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
-and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
-affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
-rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
-curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
-natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
-couldn't be in better hands.”
-
-But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
-Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
-the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
-era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
-against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
-great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
-against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
-of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
-had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
-alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
-the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
-and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
-fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
-What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
-One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
-and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!
-
-There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
-measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
-time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
-count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
-of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
-unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
-head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
-head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
-widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
-
-And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
-all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
-revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
-revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
-which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
-any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
-with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
-these things became the established order and nature of appointed
-things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
-Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
-the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
-sharp female called La Guillotine.
-
-It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
-it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
-peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
-shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
-and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
-human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
-from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
-believed in where the Cross was denied.
-
-It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
-were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
-Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
-the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
-good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
-dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
-The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
-functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
-namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
-day.
-
-Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
-with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
-end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
-current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
-away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
-months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
-wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
-that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
-violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
-under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
-terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
-that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
-in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
-victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
-appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
-other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
-he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
-a Spirit moving among mortals.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wood-Sawyer
-
-
-One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
-sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
-husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
-tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
-women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
-old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
-daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
-and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
-Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
-bestow, O Guillotine!
-
-If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
-had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
-despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
-the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
-the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
-truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
-will always be.
-
-As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
-had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
-household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
-its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
-as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
-slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
-that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
-return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
-solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
-unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
-outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
-
-She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
-mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
-attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
-and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
-thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
-night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
-repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
-was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
-without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”
-
-They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
-father said to her, on coming home one evening:
-
-“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
-sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
-it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
-in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
-show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
-if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”
-
-“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”
-
-From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
-clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
-When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
-went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
-single day.
-
-It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
-of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
-end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
-her.
-
-“Good day, citizeness.”
-
-“Good day, citizen.”
-
-This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
-established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
-but, was now law for everybody.
-
-“Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“You see me, citizen!”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
-had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
-at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
-bars, peeped through them jocosely.
-
-“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.
-
-Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
-appeared.
-
-“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
-
-“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
-
-“Yes, dearest.”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
-call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
-comes!”
-
-The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
-
-“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
-Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
-Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
-family!”
-
-Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
-impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
-his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
-first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
-
-He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
-him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
-up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
-with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
-not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
-briskly fall to his sawing again.
-
-In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
-spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
-in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
-this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
-Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
-five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
-for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
-see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
-waited out the day, seven days a week.
-
-These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
-father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
-afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
-rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
-decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
-also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
-(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
-
-The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
-surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
-somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
-with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
-and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
-saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
-female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
-was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
-
-But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
-and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
-afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
-prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
-The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
-they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
-than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
-keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
-Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
-together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
-mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
-filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
-apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
-advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
-another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
-in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
-linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
-and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
-all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
-reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
-again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
-of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
-up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
-as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
-innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
-a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
-heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
-warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
-bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
-delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
-the disjointed time.
-
-This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
-bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
-fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
-
-“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
-had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
-
-“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
-frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”
-
-“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
-husband, and the mercies of these people--”
-
-“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
-the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
-kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
-
-“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
-
-“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
-
-“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
-“no.”
-
-A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
- from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
-Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
-
-“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
-and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
-“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-“For to-morrow!”
-
-“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
-to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
-before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
-that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
-Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”
-
-She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
-
-“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
-be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
-protection. I must see Lorry.”
-
-He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
-both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
-away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
-
-“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
-
-The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
-and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
-and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
-better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
-hold his peace.
-
-A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
-the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
-Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
-deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
-National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
-Fraternity, or Death!
-
-Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
-chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
-agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
-he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
-turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
-he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
-
-
-
-
-VI. Triumph
-
-
-The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
-Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
-read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
-standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
-inside there!”
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
-
-So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
-
-When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
-for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
-Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
-hundreds pass away so.
-
-His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
-to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
-list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
-names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
-summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
-guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
-where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
-arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
-creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
-scaffold.
-
-There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
-soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
-were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
-concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
-there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
-refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
-common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
-who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
-insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
-time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
-or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
-brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
-boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
-seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
-disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
-like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
-them.
-
-The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
-vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
-put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
-were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.
-
-His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
-and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
-at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
-usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
-honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
-without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
-spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
-anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
-the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
-knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
-knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
-her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
-he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
-remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
-his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
-in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
-himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
-be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
-the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
-in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
-Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
-wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
-Carmagnole.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
-as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
-which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
-decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
-the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
-
-“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”
-
-The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
-prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
-England?
-
-Undoubtedly it was.
-
-Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
-
-Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
-
-Why not? the President desired to know.
-
-Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
-to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
-his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
-acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
-England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
-
-What proof had he of this?
-
-He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
-Alexandre Manette.
-
-But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
-
-True, but not an English woman.
-
-A citizeness of France?
-
-Yes. By birth.
-
-Her name and family?
-
-“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
-sits there.”
-
-This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
-of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
-the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
-countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
-if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
-
-On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
-according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
-counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
-inch of his road.
-
-The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
-sooner?
-
-He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
-of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
-he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
-He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
-a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
-absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
-testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
-in the eyes of the Republic?
-
-The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
-bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
- until they left off, of their own will.
-
-The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
-that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
-to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
-but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
-the President.
-
-The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
-it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
-and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
-Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
-pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
-enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
-overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
-of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
-had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
-declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
-answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
-called Darnay.
-
-Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
-and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
-proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
-release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
-England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
-their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
-government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
-the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
-circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
-straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
-populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
-Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
-had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
-account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
-they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
-receive them.
-
-At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
-set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
-favour, and the President declared him free.
-
-Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
-sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
-generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
-their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
-these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
-to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
-was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
-at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
-prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
-his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
-exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
-people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
-the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
-streets.
-
-His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
-rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
-together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
-assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
-itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
-him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
-hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
-of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
-Republic!”
-
-The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
-for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
-crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
-Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
-concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
-turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
-which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
-shore.
-
-They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
-taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
-Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
-had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
-even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
-on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
-and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
-he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
-was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
-
-In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
-him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
-prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
-they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
-him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
-had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
-feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
-
-As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
-face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
-together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
-rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
-Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
-crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
-overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
-and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
-them away.
-
-After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
-before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
-breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
-after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
-his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
-lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
-rooms.
-
-“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
-
-“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
-prayed to Him.”
-
-They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
-his arms, he said to her:
-
-“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
-could have done what he has done for me.”
-
-She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
-head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
-had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
-strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
-tremble so. I have saved him.”
-
-
-
-
-VII. A Knock at the Door
-
-
-“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
-often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
-vague but heavy fear was upon her.
-
-All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
-revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
-vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
-many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
-her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
-heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
-The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
-the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
-them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
-his real presence and trembled more.
-
-Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
-woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
-no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
-he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
-them all lean upon him.
-
-Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
-the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
-because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
-had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
-the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
-partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
-citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
-occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
-Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
-night.
-
-It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
-Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
-house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
-of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
-Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
-below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
-himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
-employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
-Darnay.
-
-In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
-harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
-in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
-were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
-shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
-possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
-
-For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
-office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
-basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
-lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
-such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
-association with a French family, might have known as much of their
-language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
-direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
-pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
-was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
-introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
-the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
-of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
-made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
-one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
-
-“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
-“if you are ready, I am.”
-
-Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
-all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
-
-“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
-have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
-these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
-
-“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
- retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”
-
-“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
-Nick's.”
-
-“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
-meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
-and Mischief.”
-
-“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.
-
-“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
-among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
-smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
-streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
-Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
-pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
-May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”
-
-“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.
-
-“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
-that,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
-
-“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
-short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
-Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
-as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
-tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
-after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
-
-“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
-had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
-“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
-way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
-with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
-prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
-
-“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
-
-“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
-glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
-must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
-fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
-you move, Ladybird!”
-
-They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
-child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
-Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
-a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
-sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
-in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
-a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
-a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
-quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
-
-“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
-
-“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
-on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
-least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”
-
-“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
-and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
-
-“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
-
-As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
-
-“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
-
-“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
-shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
-to the door.”
-
-He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
-and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
-men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
-
-“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
-
-“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
-
-“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
-Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”
-
-The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
-to him.
-
-“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”
-
-“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
-know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
-stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
-moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
-the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
-woollen shirt, said:
-
-“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
-
-“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
-
-“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
-
-He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
-after a pause:
-
-“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
-the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
-had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
-
-The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
-
-“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
-
-“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
-more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
-a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
-The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”
-
-“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”
-
-“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
-Antoine here.”
-
-The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
-feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
-
-“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
-the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”
-
-“What other?”
-
-“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
-answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
-
-
-
-
-VIII. A Hand at Cards
-
-
-Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
-way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
-Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
-she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
-both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
-passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
-turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
-was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
-lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
-stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
-Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
-undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
-grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
-
-Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
-for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
-After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
-once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
-took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
-description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
-not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
-opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
-attended by her cavalier.
-
-Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
-playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
-bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
-the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
-resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
-popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
-like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
-the counter, and showed what they wanted.
-
-As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
-corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
-sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
-her hands.
-
-In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
-assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
-likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
-saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
-the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
-evidently English.
-
-What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
-voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
-Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
-ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
-not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
-Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
-account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.
-
-“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
-speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
-English.
-
-“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
-“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
-do I find you here!”
-
-“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
-man, in a furtive, frightened way.
-
-“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
-been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
-
-“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
-want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”
-
-Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
-affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”
-
-“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”
-
-Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
-word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
-through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
-so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
-of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
-language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
-pursuits.
-
-“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
-want?”
-
-“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
-from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
-affection.”
-
-“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
-lips with his own. “Now are you content?”
-
-Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
-
-“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
-surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
-you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
-do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
-am an official.”
-
-“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
-tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
-greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
-such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
-his--”
-
-“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
-the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
-as I am getting on!”
-
-“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
-rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
-loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
-and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
-detain you no longer.”
-
-Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
-culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
-ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
-her money and left her!
-
-He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
-condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
-merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
-all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
-hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
-question:
-
-“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
-or Solomon John?”
-
-The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
-previously uttered a word.
-
-“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
-was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
-calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
-you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
-name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
-was, over the water.”
-
-“No?”
-
-“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
-at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
-yourself, was you called at that time?”
-
-“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
-
-“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
-
-The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
-him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
-elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
-
-“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
-surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
-elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
-myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
-better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
-was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”
-
-Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
-who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
-
-“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
-of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
-an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
-faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
-a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
-the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
-direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
-sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
-conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
-nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
-to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“What purpose?” the spy asked.
-
-“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
-street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
-company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”
-
-“Under a threat?”
-
-“Oh! Did I say that?”
-
-“Then, why should I go there?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”
-
-“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
-
-“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”
-
-Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
-quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
-and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
-made the most of it.
-
-“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
-sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
-
-“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
-But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
-pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
-satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”
-
-“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”
-
-“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
-own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
-at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
-knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
-ready? Come then!”
-
-Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
-remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
-in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
-purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
-contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
-too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
-her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
-heed what she observed.
-
-They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
-Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
-Pross, walked at his side.
-
-Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
-little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
-picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
-into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
-ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
-which he saw a stranger.
-
-“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
-with the name--and with the face.”
-
-“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
-coolly. “Pray sit down.”
-
-As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
-by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
-immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
-look of abhorrence.
-
-“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
-brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
-relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”
-
-Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
-tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
-to return to him!”
-
-“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Just now, if at all.”
-
-“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
-have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
-over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
-messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
-earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
-of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
-might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
-silently attentive.
-
-“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
-Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
-would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”
-
-“Yes; I believe so.”
-
-“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
-to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
-power to prevent this arrest.”
-
-“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
-identified he is with his son-in-law.”
-
-“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
-chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.
-
-“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
-are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
-will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
-carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
-stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
-in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
-Barsad.”
-
-“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
-
-“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
-brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
-
-It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
-glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
-
-“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
-over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
-committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
-so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
-is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
-Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
-That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
-French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
-English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
-card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
-Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
-spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
-the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
-difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
-hand, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
-
-“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
-Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
-hurry.”
-
-He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
-drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
-into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
-poured out and drank another glassful.
-
-“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
-
-It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
-in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
-employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
-there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
-vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
-date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
-France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
-there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
-knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
-Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
-such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
-release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
-familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
-Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
-with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
-talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
-He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
-again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
-guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
-he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
-he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
-his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
-terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
-grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
-that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
-proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
-his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
-terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
-the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
-
-“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
-composure. “Do you play?”
-
-“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
-Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
-put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
-under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
-of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
-considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
-somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
-himself as to make himself one?”
-
-“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
-and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
-
-“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
-hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”
-
-“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
-relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“You think not, sir?”
-
-“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
-
-The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
-ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
-received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
-mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
-failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
-of contemplating cards:
-
-“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
-have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
-fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
-who was he?”
-
-“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
-
-“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
-at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”
-
-“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
-
-“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
-way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
-the face.”
-
-“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.
-
-“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
-glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
-French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”
-
-“Provincial,” said the spy.
-
-“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
-light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
-had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”
-
-“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
-aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
-me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
-distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
-attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
-of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
-multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
-to lay him in his coffin.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
-goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
-to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
-risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
-
-“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
-how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
-lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
-carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
-it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
-it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
-Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
-violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
-crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
-
-Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
-the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
-
-“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
-iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Who took him out of it?”
-
-Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”
-
-“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
-I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
-
-The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
-unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.
-
-“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
-that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
-take in. Me and two more knows it.”
-
-“How do you know it?”
-
-“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
-old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
-I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
-
-Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
-this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
-explain himself.
-
-“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
-ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
-wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
-in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
-throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
-quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”
-
-“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
-Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
-you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
-aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
-the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
-A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
-card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”
-
-“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
-with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
-of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
-he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
-man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
-
-“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
-Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
-that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
-be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
-liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
-guinea.”
-
-The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
-with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
-can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
-Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
-office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
-life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
-I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
-here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
-way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
-me?”
-
-“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”
-
-“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
- said the spy, firmly.
-
-“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
-Conciergerie?”
-
-“I am sometimes.”
-
-“You can be when you choose?”
-
-“I can pass in and out when I choose.”
-
-Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
-upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
-said, rising:
-
-“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
-the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
-into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Game Made
-
-
-While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
-dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
-at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
-manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
-leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
-and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
-questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
-his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
-hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
-infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
-of him.
-
-“What have you been, besides a messenger?”
-
-After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
-Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
-character.”
-
-“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
-at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
-as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
-description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
-get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
-Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
-
-“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
-yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
-would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
-is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
-it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
-to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
-up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
-fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
-yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
-their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
-out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
-Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
-goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
-in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
-a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
-ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
-it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
-and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
-undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
-with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
-much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
-prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
-all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
-once in--even if it wos so.”
-
-“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
-the sight of you.”
-
-“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
-“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”
-
-“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
-further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
-would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
-that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
-be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
-your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
-wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
-you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
-his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
-let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
-for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
-a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
-That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
-arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
-discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
-see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
-without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
-to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
-things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
-fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
-cause when I might have kep' it back.”
-
-“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
-that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
-action--not in words. I want no more words.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
-returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
-arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
-
-He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
-were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
-
-“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
-to him, once.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
-
-“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
-to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
-worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
-weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”
-
-“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
-Tribunal, will not save him.”
-
-“I never said it would.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
-darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
-weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
-and his tears fell.
-
-“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
-voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
-father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
-sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
-however.”
-
-Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
-was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
-that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
-unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
-
-“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
-interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
-him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
-to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
-see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
-evidently understood it.
-
-“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
-only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
-I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
-little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
-You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”
-
-“I am going now, directly.”
-
-“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
-on you. How does she look?”
-
-“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
-
-“Ah!”
-
-It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
-attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
-fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
-passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
-wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
-flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
-and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
-light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
-all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
-sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
-his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
-broken under the weight of his foot.
-
-“I forgot it,” he said.
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
-wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
-the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
-reminded of that expression.
-
-“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
-to him.
-
-“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
-unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
-have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
-my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”
-
-They were both silent.
-
-“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.
-
-“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”
-
-“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
-trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
-
-“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
-may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”
-
-“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
-you when you leave it empty!”
-
-“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
-is nobody to weep for me.”
-
-“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”
-
-“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”
-
-“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”
-
-“Surely, surely.”
-
-“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
-'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
-respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
-regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
-your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
-not?”
-
-“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”
-
-Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
-few moments, said:
-
-“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
-days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
-
-Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
-
-“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
-closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
-nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
-preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
-that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
-and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
-so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
-
-“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
-you are the better for it?”
-
-“I hope so.”
-
-Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
-his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
-are young.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
-age. Enough of me.”
-
-“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”
-
-“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
-habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
-uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”
-
-“Yes, unhappily.”
-
-“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
-place for me. Take my arm, sir.”
-
-Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
-few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
-there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
-again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
-the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
-“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
-her steps.”
-
-It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
-where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
-closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
-
-“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
-man eyed him inquisitively.
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“How goes the Republic?”
-
-“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
-to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
-exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
-
-“Do you often go to see him--”
-
-“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
-citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
-than two pipes. Word of honour!”
-
-As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
-how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
-to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
-
-“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
-English dress?”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
-
-“You speak like a Frenchman.”
-
-“I am an old student here.”
-
-“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
-him. “And take a pipe with you!”
-
-Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
-the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
-of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
-the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
-for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
-terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
-his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
-thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
-
-Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
-counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
-whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”
-
-Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
-
-“For you, citizen?”
-
-“For me.”
-
-“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
-consequences of mixing them?”
-
-“Perfectly.”
-
-Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
-one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
-and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
-glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”
-
-It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
-aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
-negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
-had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
-his road and saw its end.
-
-Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
-youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
-mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
-read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
-streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
-on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
-he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
-whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
-rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
-and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
-and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
-brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
-might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
-went on.
-
-With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
-going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
-surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
-were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
-of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
-profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
-the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
-along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
-material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
-the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
-interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
-short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
-the lighter streets.
-
-Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
-suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
-shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
-people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
-one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
-for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
-and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
-
-“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
-were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
-and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
-heard them always.
-
-The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
-water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
-picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
-of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
-sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
-and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
-Death's dominion.
-
-But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
-of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
-And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
-appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
-sparkled under it.
-
-The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
-friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
-houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
-bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
-longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
-stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”
-
-A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
-glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
-in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
-for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
-ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
-where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
-little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
-himself, went out to the place of trial.
-
-The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
-away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
-Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
-sitting beside her father.
-
-When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
-sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
-tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
-blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
-there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
-Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
-
-Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
-ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
-been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
-first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
-Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
-
-Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
-republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
-after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
-his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
-gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
-cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
-Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
-
-Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
-No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
-murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
-in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
-another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
-retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
-Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
-one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
-privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
-called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
-
-To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
-
-The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
-
-“Openly, President.”
-
-“By whom?”
-
-“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
-
-A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
-Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
-
-“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
-a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
-daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
-and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
-of my child!”
-
-“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
-the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
-to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
-Republic.”
-
-Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
-with warmth resumed.
-
-“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
-herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
-to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
-
-Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
-his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
-closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
-and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
-
-Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
-being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
-his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
-and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
-This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
-
-“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
-best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
-there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
-it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”
-
-It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
-thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
-Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
- wherein she was likewise much commended.
-
-“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
-citizen.”
-
-“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
-bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
-“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
-known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
-knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
-when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
-when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
-the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
-gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
-stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
-that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
-of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
-I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
-the President.”
-
-“Let it be read.”
-
-In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
-lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
-solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
-reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
-never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
-intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
-follows.
-
-
-
-
-X. The Substance of the Shadow
-
-
-“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
-afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
-cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
-it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
-in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
-place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
-and my sorrows are dust.
-
-“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
-difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
-with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
-has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
-noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
-solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
-mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
-truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
-be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
-
-“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
-twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
-part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
-at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
-School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
-fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
-might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
-voice called to the driver to stop.
-
-“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
-and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
-was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
-door and alight before I came up with it.
-
-“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
-conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
-I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
-younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
-and (as far as I could see) face too.
-
-“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
-physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
-has made a rising reputation in Paris?'
-
-“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
-graciously.'
-
-“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
-so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
-probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
-overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'
-
-“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
-were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
-They were armed. I was not.
-
-“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
-the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
-which I am summoned.'
-
-“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
-your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
-our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
-yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
-enter the carriage?'
-
-“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
-entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
-carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
-
-“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
-it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
-place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
-the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
-paper in its hiding-place.
-
- *****
-
-“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
-emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
-Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
-when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
-stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
-a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
-overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
-answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
-the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
-
-“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
-for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
-other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
-with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
-alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
-
-“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
-locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
-relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
-conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
-ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
-lying on a bed.
-
-“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
-past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
-her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
-all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
-scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
-and the letter E.
-
-“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
-for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
-edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
-in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
-her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
-corner caught my sight.
-
-“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
-and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
-wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
-words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
-twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
-to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
-would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
-would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
-order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
-pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
-
-“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'
-
-“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
-younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
-was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'
-
-“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
-
-“'A brother.'
-
-“'I do not address her brother?'
-
-“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'
-
-“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'
-
-“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'
-
-“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
-useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
-to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
-are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
-
-“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
-a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
-the table.
-
- *****
-
-“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
-lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
-poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
-
-“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.
-
-“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
-more.
-
-“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
-efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
-after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
-sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
-in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
-a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
-furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
-old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
-sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
-succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
-counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
-not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
-them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
-in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
-soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
-figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
-regular.
-
-“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
-the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
-before the elder said:
-
-“'There is another patient.'
-
-“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'
-
-“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
-
- *****
-
-“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
-was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
-to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
-there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
-the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
-pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
-and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
-this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
-captivity, as I saw them all that night.
-
-“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
-handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
-He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
-breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
-where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
-that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
-
-“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'
-
-“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
-
-“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
-The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
-before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
-without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
-brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
-ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
-as if he were a fellow-creature.
-
-“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.
-
-“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
-and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'
-
-“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
-answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
-have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
-have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
-vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
-the boy, or about his fate.
-
-“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
-slowly moved to me.
-
-“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
-proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
-we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'
-
-“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
-distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
-
-“I said, 'I have seen her.'
-
-“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
-Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
-have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
-so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
-tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
-The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
-
-“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
-to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
-
-“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
-are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
-work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
-to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
-for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
-plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
-ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
-people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
-and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
-dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
-most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
-race die out!'
-
-“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
-like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
-somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
-dying boy.
-
-“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
-poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
-him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
-been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
-her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
-us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
-hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
-then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
-willing?'
-
-“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
-looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
-opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
-Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
-trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
-
-“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
-harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
-drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
-grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
-may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
-night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
-not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
-could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
-bell, and died on her bosom.'
-
-“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
-tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
-he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
-wound.
-
-“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
-brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
-brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
-it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
-for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
-tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
-that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
-beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
-_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
-in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
-somewhere here?'
-
-“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
-him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
-over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
-
-“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
-dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
-at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
-make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
-that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
-at me with all his skill for his life.'
-
-“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
-a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
-another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
-
-“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
-
-“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
-referred to the brother.
-
-“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
-man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
-
-“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
-moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
-me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
-
-“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
-his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
-answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
-answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
-I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
-I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
-separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
-it.'
-
-“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
-forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
-finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
-down dead.
-
- *****
-
-“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
-in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
-for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
-grave.
-
-“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
-the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
-quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
-of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
-One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
-twelve. Hush!'
-
-“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
-come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
-falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
-by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
-
-“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
-fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
-compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
-her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
-a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
-had of her.
-
-“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
-elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
-
-“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
-
-“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
-at her with some curiosity.
-
-“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
-despair.'
-
-“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
-chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
-subdued voice,
-
-“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
-recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
-and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
-of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
-and not spoken of.'
-
-“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
-
-“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
-
-“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
-are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
-was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
-
-“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
-pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
-resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
-
- *****
-
-“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
-fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
-darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
-failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
-was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
-
-“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
-syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
-asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
-was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
-head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
-
-“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
-brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
-then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
-woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
-the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
-that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
-if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.
-
-“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
-brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
-peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
-of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
-to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
-brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
-for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
-me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
-in the mind of the elder, too.
-
-“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
-answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
-with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
-all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
-
-“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
-away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
-their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
-
-“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
-
-“'She is dead,' said I.
-
-“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
-
-“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
-gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
-the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
-nothing.
-
-“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
-
-“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
-them, and we parted without another word on either side.
-
- *****
-
-“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
-have written with this gaunt hand.
-
-“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
-little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
-considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
-to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
-summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
-circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
-of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
-heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
-profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
-in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
-I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
-compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
-
-“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
-night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
-It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
-completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
-
- *****
-
-“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
-so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
-dreadful.
-
-“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
-life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
-wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
-boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
-on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
-had seen that nobleman very lately.
-
-“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
-conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
-know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
-in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
-share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
-was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
-in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
-Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
-
-“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
-her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
-but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
-inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
-that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
-wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
-
- *****
-
-“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
-yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
-
-“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
-could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
-was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
-husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
-pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
-
-“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
-all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
-inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
-atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
-I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
-jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
-compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
-the sister can be discovered.'
-
-“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
-sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
-bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
-went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
-
-“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
-I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
-trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
-
-“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
-a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
-my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
-into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
-My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
-the gate, standing silent behind him.
-
-“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
-he had a coach in waiting.
-
-“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
-house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
-my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
-corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
-his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
-of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
-Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
-grave.
-
-“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
-brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
-my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
-dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
-now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
-they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
-last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
-night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
-when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
-and to earth.”
-
-A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
-sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
-blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
-and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
-
-Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
-how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
-Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
-time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
-anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
-The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
-sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
-
-And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
-well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
-of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
-the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
-self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
-said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
-physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
-rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
-a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
-orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
-human sympathy.
-
-“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
-smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”
-
-At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
-roar.
-
-Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
-of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
-Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
-
-
-
-
-XI. Dusk
-
-
-The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
-the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
-sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
-she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
-it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
-
-The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
-the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
-emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
-stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
-but love and consolation.
-
-“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
-you would have so much compassion for us!”
-
-There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
-taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
-show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
-him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
-passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
-leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
-
-“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
-shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
-
-They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
-
-“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
-for me. A parting blessing for our child.”
-
-“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
-you.”
-
-“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
-“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
-by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
-will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”
-
-Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
-of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
-
-“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
-to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
-you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
-know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
-her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
-duty. Heaven be with you!”
-
-Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
-and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
-
-“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
-together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
-discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
-near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
-nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
-bless you!”
-
-As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
-with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
-with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
-smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
-lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
-feet.
-
-Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
-Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
-with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
-Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
-flush of pride in it.
-
-“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”
-
-He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
-coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
-beside the driver.
-
-When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
-many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
-the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
-the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
-her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
-
-“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
-better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
-
-“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
-throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
-you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
-save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
-love her, bear to see her so?”
-
-He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
-put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
-
-“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
-
-It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
-with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
-him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
-handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
-
-When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
-and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
-
-“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
-be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
-you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
-
-“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
-strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
-answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
-
-“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
-and short, but try.”
-
-“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
-
-“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
-now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
-great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
-it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
-were not.”
-
-“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
-straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
-write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
-one will be accessible until dark.”
-
-“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
-forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
-speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
-these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”
-
-“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
-this.”
-
-“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
-go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
-our friend or from yourself?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“May you prosper!”
-
-Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
-shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
-
-“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
-
-“Nor have I.”
-
-“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
-him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
-to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
-court.”
-
-“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
-
-Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
-
-“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
-Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
-consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
-thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
-
-“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
-But he will perish; there is no real hope.”
-
-“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.
-
-And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-XII. Darkness
-
-
-Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
-Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
-do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
-these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
-precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
-Let me think it out!”
-
-Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
-turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
-in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
-confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
-should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
-towards Saint Antoine.
-
-Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
-the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
-well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
-its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
-at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
-first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
-had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
-dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
-done with it.
-
-It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
-into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
-stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
-the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
-his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.
-
-There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
-restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
-the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
-Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
-a regular member of the establishment.
-
-As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
-French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
-glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
-to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
-
-He repeated what he had already said.
-
-“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
-eyebrows.
-
-After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
-slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
-accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”
-
-Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
-took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
-meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”
-
-Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
-
-“How?”
-
-“Good evening.”
-
-“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
-drink to the Republic.”
-
-Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
- Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
-pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
- The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
-are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
-to-morrow!”
-
-Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
-forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
-their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
-of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
-disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
-their conversation.
-
-“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
-is great force in that. Why stop?”
-
-“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
-the question is still where?”
-
-“At extermination,” said madame.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
-approved.
-
-“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
-troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
-suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
-the paper was read.”
-
-“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
-“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
-face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”
-
-“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
-“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
-
-“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
-his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
-have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
-I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
-finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
-his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
-if the axe had dropped.
-
-“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.
-
-“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
-
-“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
-depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
-man even now.”
-
-“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
-would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”
-
-“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
-too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
-tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
-doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.
-
-“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
-this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
-night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
-by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge.
-
-“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
-burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
-those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
-that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge again.
-
-“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
-hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
-among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
-by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
-family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
-was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
-was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
-those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
-descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.
-
-“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
-tell me.”
-
-Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
-of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
-her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
-a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
-only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
-the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”
-
-Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
-paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
-a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
-took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
-The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
-be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
-deep.
-
-But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
-prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
-himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
-walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
-until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
-keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
-banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
-mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
-more than five hours gone: where could he be?
-
-Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
-he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
-should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
-In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
-
-He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
-did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
-brought none. Where could he be?
-
-They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
-weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
-the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
-lost.
-
-Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
-time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
-them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
-
-“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”
-
-His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
-straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
-
-“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
-can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
-finish those shoes.”
-
-They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
-
-“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
-work. Give me my work.”
-
-Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
-ground, like a distracted child.
-
-“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
-cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
-not done to-night?”
-
-Lost, utterly lost!
-
-It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
-that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
-soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
-have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
-embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
-time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
-the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
-
-Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
-of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
-daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
-too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
-one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
-
-“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
-to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
-me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
-exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”
-
-“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”
-
-The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
-rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
-they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
-night.
-
-Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
-feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
-carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
-took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
-at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
-exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”
-
-“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
-
-“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
-his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
-enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
-an Englishman?”
-
-Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
-
-“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
-remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
-Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
-and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
-frontier! You see?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
-yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
-up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
-within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
-good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
-think, will be.”
-
-“They are not in danger?”
-
-“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
-Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
-woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
-colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
-confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
-is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
-Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
-name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
-the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
-involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
-both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
-will save them all.”
-
-“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”
-
-“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
-on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
-until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
-more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
-mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
-father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
-inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
-strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”
-
-“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
-the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
-of this distress.”
-
-“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
-as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
-completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
-horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
-afternoon.”
-
-“It shall be done!”
-
-His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
-flame, and was as quick as youth.
-
-“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
-Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
-and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
-beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
-on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
-the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
-her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
-depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
-father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
-
-“I am sure of it.”
-
-“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
-the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
-The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
-
-“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”
-
-“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
-reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
-then for England!”
-
-“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
-hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
-and ardent man at my side.”
-
-“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
-influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
-another.”
-
-“Nothing, Carton.”
-
-“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
-any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
-inevitably be sacrificed.”
-
-“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”
-
-“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”
-
-Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
-put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
-helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
-as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
-where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
-to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
-courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
-the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
-it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
-there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
-her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
-Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. Fifty-two
-
-
-In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
-their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
-to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
-everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
-were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
-the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
-apart.
-
-Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
-whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
-poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
-in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
-and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
-intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
-without distinction.
-
-Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
-flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
-of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
-fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
-that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
-avail him nothing.
-
-Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
-before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
-was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
-and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
-when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
-this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
-a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
-resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
-child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
-selfish thing.
-
-But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
-was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
-road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
-him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
-enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
-by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
-thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
-
-Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
-travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
-of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
-prison lamps should be extinguished.
-
-He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
-of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
-and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
-responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
-already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
-he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
-her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
-had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
-for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
-become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
-to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
-that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
-preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
-he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
-mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
-discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
-besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
-her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
-of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
-reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
-sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
-blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
-dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
-father.
-
-To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
-father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
-he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
-despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
-tending.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
-That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
-attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
-full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
-
-He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
-he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
-
-But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
-forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
-nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
-heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
-he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
-suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
-was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
-sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
-flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
-
-Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
-were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
-meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
-thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
-
-He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
-high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
-stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
-red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
-or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
-directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
-times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
-fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
-to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
-few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
-the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
-
-The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
-numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
-ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
-contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
-him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
-repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
-He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
-himself and for them.
-
-Twelve gone for ever.
-
-He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
-be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
-and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
-before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
-interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
-
-Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
-different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
-he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
-measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
-recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
-turned to walk again.
-
-Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
-
-The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
-as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
-me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
-no time!”
-
-The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
-face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
-features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
-
-There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
-first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
-imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
-hand, and it was his real grasp.
-
-“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
-
-“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
-are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”
-
-“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
-here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
-wife, dear Darnay.”
-
-The prisoner wrung his hand.
-
-“I bring you a request from her.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
-in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
-remember.”
-
-The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
-
-“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
-no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
-wear, and draw on these of mine.”
-
-There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
-Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
-him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
-
-“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
-them. Quick!”
-
-“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
-will only die with me. It is madness.”
-
-“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
-to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
-that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
-it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
-this of mine!”
-
-With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
-that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
-The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
-
-“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
-can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
-not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
-
-“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
-refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
-steady enough to write?”
-
-“It was when you came in.”
-
-“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”
-
-Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
-Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
-
-“Write exactly as I speak.”
-
-“To whom do I address it?”
-
-“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.
-
-“Do I date it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
-his hand in his breast, looked down.
-
-“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
-between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
-You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”
-
-He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
-up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
-something.
-
-“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.
-
-“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”
-
-“No; I am not armed.”
-
-“What is it in your hand?”
-
-“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
-dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
-them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
-words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
-moved down close to the writer's face.
-
-The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
-him vacantly.
-
-“What vapour is that?” he asked.
-
-“Vapour?”
-
-“Something that crossed me?”
-
-“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
-and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
-
-As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
-prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
-with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
-hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
-
-“Hurry, hurry!”
-
-The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
-
-“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
-softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
-If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
-should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
-otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
-unintelligible signs.
-
-Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
-with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
-nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
-seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
-life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
-the ground.
-
-Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
-dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
-his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
-softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.
-
-“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
-insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
-great?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
-hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
-the whole of your bargain.”
-
-“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”
-
-“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
-made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”
-
-“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
-rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
-take me to the coach.”
-
-“You?” said the Spy nervously.
-
-“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
-you brought me in?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
-take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
-happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
-Quick! Call assistance!”
-
-“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
-last moment.
-
-“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
-solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
-moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
-him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
-yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
-last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
-
-The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
-forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
-
-“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
-afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
-Sainte Guillotine?”
-
-“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
-if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
-
-They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
-brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
-
-“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.
-
-“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
-you, and leave me.”
-
-“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”
-
-The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
-listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
-suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
-footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
-made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
-sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
-
-Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
-began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
-finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
-saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
-at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
-within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
-the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
-standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
-but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
-fixedly at the ground.
-
-As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
-were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
-as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
-discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
-woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
-no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
-the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
-
-“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
-poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”
-
-He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”
-
-“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
-likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
-like me?”
-
-The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
-started from his eyes.
-
-“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
-am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
-to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
-Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
-
-As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
-warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
-
-“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”
-
-“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
-
-“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
-hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
-more courage.”
-
-As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
-them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
-fingers, and touched his lips.
-
-“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
-
-“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
-
-“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
-
-“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
-
- *****
-
-The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
-same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
-it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
-
-“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
-
-The papers are handed out, and read.
-
-“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
-
-This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
-pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
-Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
-
-Greatly too much for him.
-
-“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
-
-This is she.
-
-“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”
-
-It is.
-
-“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
-This is she?”
-
-She and no other.
-
-“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
-something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
-English. Which is he?”
-
-He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”
-
-It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
-he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
-under the displeasure of the Republic.
-
-“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
-displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
-Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”
-
-“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”
-
-It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
-is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
-door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
-carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
-carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
-the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
-mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
-an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
-
-“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”
-
-“One can depart, citizen?”
-
-“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”
-
-“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”
-
-These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
-looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
-is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
-
-“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
- asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
-
-“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
-it would rouse suspicion.”
-
-“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
-
-“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”
-
-Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
-dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
-trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
-either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
-stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
-sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
-wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
-anything but stopping.
-
-Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
-farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
-avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
-by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
-no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
-the posting-house.
-
-Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
-the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
-of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
-existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
-plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
-their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
-All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
-far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
-
-At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
-behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
-on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
-animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
-haunches. We are pursued?
-
-“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”
-
-“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
-
-“How many did they say?”
-
-“I do not understand you.”
-
-“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”
-
-“Fifty-two.”
-
-“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
-forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
-handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”
-
-The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
-to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
-by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
-us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
-
-The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
-the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
-us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Knitting Done
-
-
-In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
-Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
-Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
-erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
-conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
-was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
-
-“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
-Republican? Eh?”
-
-“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
-notes, “in France.”
-
-“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
-a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
-fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
-well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
-his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”
-
-“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
-with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
-citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
-
-“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
-his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
-me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
-child must follow the husband and father.”
-
-“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
-eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
-them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
-
-Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
-
-“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
-of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
-there. It is a pretty sight!”
-
-“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
-“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
-last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
-but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
-and then they might escape.”
-
-“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
-have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”
-
-“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
-pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
-regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
-therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
-submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
-
-“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
-“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
-this very day?”
-
-“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
-two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
-without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”
-
-He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
-imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
-never seen.
-
-“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”
-
-“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
-eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
-
-“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
-fellow-Jurymen.”
-
-“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
-Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
-I spare him?”
-
-“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
-“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”
-
-“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
-cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
-trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
-bad witness.”
-
-The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
-protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
-witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
-celestial witness.
-
-“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
-him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
-to-day executed.--You?”
-
-The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
-the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
-of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
-Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
-smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
-barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
-suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
-him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
-for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
-
-“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
-over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
-will give information against these people at my Section.”
-
-The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
-citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
-her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
-hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
-
-Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
-the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
-
-“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
-be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
-justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
-I will go to her.”
-
-“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
-Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
-embraced her.
-
-“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
-lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
-me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
-greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
-
-“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
-alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”
-
-“I shall be there before the commencement.”
-
-“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
-The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
-street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
-
-Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
-might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
-mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
-Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
-of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
-
-There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
-disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
-than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
-strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
-determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
-to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
-instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
-heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
-with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
-opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
-pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
-her.
-
-It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
-his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
-his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
-insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
-her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
-hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
-been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
-she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
-been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
-softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
-sent her there.
-
-Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
-worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
-dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
-bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
-dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
-a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
-walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
-sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
-
-Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
-waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
-the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
-attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
-but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
-it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
-escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
-Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
-and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
-three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
-Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
-passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
-advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
-of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
-
-Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
-pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
-beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
-passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
-their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
-taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
-else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
-
-“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
-was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
-“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
-carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
-suspicion.”
-
-“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
-wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
-
-“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
-Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
-_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”
-
-“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
-hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
-mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
-two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
-crisis?”
-
-“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
-them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
-
-“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
-an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
-more will I do it, never no more!”
-
-“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
-never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
-necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
-
-“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
-poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
-Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
-
-“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
-striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
-is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
-superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”
-
-“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
-most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
-be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
-opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
-hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
-time.”
-
-“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
-Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
-
-“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
-additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
-out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
-earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
-flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
-risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
-conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
-
-And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
-nearer and nearer.
-
-“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
-upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
-understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
-you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
-earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
-Cruncher, let us think!”
-
-Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
-and nearer.
-
-“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
-horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
-that be best?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
-
-“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
-Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
-Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
-
-“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
-the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
-towers?”
-
-“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
-straight, and make that change.”
-
-“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
-“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”
-
-“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
-Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
-and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
-of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
-that may depend on both of us!”
-
-This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
-clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
-immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
-to follow as she had proposed.
-
-The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
-execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
-her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
-streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
-minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
-
-Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
-rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
-in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
-which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
-could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
-dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
-was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
-out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
-
-The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
-Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
-those feet had come to meet that water.
-
-Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
-where is she?”
-
-It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
-and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
-four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
-the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
-
-Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
-and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
-about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
-of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
-way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
-
-“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
-Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
-me. I am an Englishwoman.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
-Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
-hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
-woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
-Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
-that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
-
-“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
-her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
-knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
-wish to see her.”
-
-“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
-depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”
-
-Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
-both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
-the unintelligible words meant.
-
-“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
-moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
-Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”
-
-“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
-was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
-you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”
-
-Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
-detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
-at naught.
-
-“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
-answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
-to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
- This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
-
-“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
-understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
-except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
-part of it.”
-
-Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
-Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
-first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
-
-“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
-English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
-greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
-dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
-
-Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
-between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
-Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
-
-But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
-irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
-Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
-laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
-Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
-of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
-answer the Citizeness Defarge!”
-
-Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
-expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
-either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
-Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
-
-“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
-are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
-you! Let me look.”
-
-“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
-Madame Defarge understood the answer.
-
-“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
-brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.
-
-“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
-uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
-know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
-that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”
-
-“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
-I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
-Madame Defarge.
-
-“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
-not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
-while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
-my darling,” said Miss Pross.
-
-Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
-moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
-It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
-with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
-clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
-that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
-face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
-clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
-
-Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
-waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
-shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
-you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
-
-Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
-what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
-alone--blinded with smoke.
-
-All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
-stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
-whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
-
-In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
-body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
-fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
-what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
-go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
-get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
-out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
-away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
-and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
-
-By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
-gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
-was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
-like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
-gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
-dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
-hundred ways.
-
-In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
-at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
-she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
-it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
-discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
-charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
-escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
-
-“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
-question and by her aspect.
-
-“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”
-
-It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
-not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
-all events she'll see that.” And she did.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
-presently.
-
-Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
-
-“I don't hear it.”
-
-“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
-much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
-
-“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
-and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”
-
-“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
-more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
-Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”
-
-“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
-my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
-and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
-broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
-
-“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
-journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
-opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
-
-And indeed she never did.
-
-
-
-
-XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
-tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
-insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
-are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
-France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
-a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
-conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
-humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
-twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
-rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
-the same fruit according to its kind.
-
-Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
-they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
-the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
-toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
-house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
-No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
-of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
-into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
-the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
-form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
- Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
-
-As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
-a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
-are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
-So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
-in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
-hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
-the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
-then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
-curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
-tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
-
-Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
-things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
-a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
-drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
-heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
-they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
-and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
-he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
-drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
-number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
-
-There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
-and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
-question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
-always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
-horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
-their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
-at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
-mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
-no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
-girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
-against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
-shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
-touch his face, his arms being bound.
-
-On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
-the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
-He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
-sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
-
-“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
-
-“That. At the back there.”
-
-“With his hand in the girl's?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
-Down, Evremonde!”
-
-“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
-
-“And why not, citizen?”
-
-“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
-Let him be at peace.”
-
-But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
-Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
-Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
-
-The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
-populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
-end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
-close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
-to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
-public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
-fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
-
-“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
-Defarge!”
-
-“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
-
-“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”
-
-“Louder,” the woman recommends.
-
-Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
-thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
-it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
-lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
-deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
-enough to find her!
-
-“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
-here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
-she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
-her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”
-
-As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
-begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
-robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
-scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
-think and speak, count One.
-
-The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
-the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
-
-The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
-after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
-still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
-crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
-his face and thanks him.
-
-“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
-naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
-able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
-have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
-Heaven.”
-
-“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
-and mind no other object.”
-
-“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
-it go, if they are rapid.”
-
-“They will be rapid. Fear not!”
-
-The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
-if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
-heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
-and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
-together, and to rest in her bosom.
-
-“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
-am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”
-
-“Tell me what it is.”
-
-“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
-love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
-farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
-nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
-tell her! It is better as it is.”
-
-“Yes, yes: better as it is.”
-
-“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
-thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
-much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
-and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
-live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
-
-“What then, my gentle sister?”
-
-“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
-endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
-“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
-where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”
-
-“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”
-
-“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
-moment come?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
-The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
-a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
-him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
-
-“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me shall never die.”
-
-The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
-on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
-forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
-Twenty-Three.
-
- *****
-
-They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
-peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
-sublime and prophetic.
-
-One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
-at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
-write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
-utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
-
-“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
-long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
-the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
-out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
-rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
-their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
-of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
-birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
-
-“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
-prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
-Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
-aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
-healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
-friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
-tranquilly to his reward.
-
-“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
-their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
-for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
-course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
-that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
-than I was in the souls of both.
-
-“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
-winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
-winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
-light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
-fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
-with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
-look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
-tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
-
-“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
-far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: A Tale of Two Cities
- A Story of the French Revolution
-
-Author: Charles Dickens
-
-Release Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]
-Posting Date: November 28, 2009
-Last Updated: March 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Judith Boss
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-A TALE OF TWO CITIES
-
-A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
-
-By Charles Dickens
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
- Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
- Chapter I The Period
- Chapter II The Mail
- Chapter III The Night Shadows
- Chapter IV The Preparation
- Chapter V The Wine-shop
- Chapter VI The Shoemaker
-
-
- Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
- Chapter I Five Years Later
- Chapter II A Sight
- Chapter III A Disappointment
- Chapter IV Congratulatory
- Chapter V The Jackal
- Chapter VI Hundreds of People
- Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town
- Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country
- Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head
- Chapter X Two Promises
- Chapter XI A Companion Picture
- Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy
- Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy
- Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman
- Chapter XV Knitting
- Chapter XVI Still Knitting
- Chapter XVII One Night
- Chapter XVIII Nine Days
- Chapter XIX An Opinion
- Chapter XX A Plea
- Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps
- Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises
- Chapter XXIII Fire Rises
- Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
- Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
- Chapter I In Secret
- Chapter II The Grindstone
- Chapter III The Shadow
- Chapter IV Calm in Storm
- Chapter V The Wood-sawyer
- Chapter VI Triumph
- Chapter VII A Knock at the Door
- Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards
- Chapter IX The Game Made
- Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow
- Chapter XI Dusk
- Chapter XII Darkness
- Chapter XIII Fifty-two
- Chapter XIV The Knitting Done
- Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the First--Recalled to Life
-
-
-
-
-I. The Period
-
-
-It was the best of times,
-it was the worst of times,
-it was the age of wisdom,
-it was the age of foolishness,
-it was the epoch of belief,
-it was the epoch of incredulity,
-it was the season of Light,
-it was the season of Darkness,
-it was the spring of hope,
-it was the winter of despair,
-we had everything before us,
-we had nothing before us,
-we were all going direct to Heaven,
-we were all going direct the other way--
-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
-its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
-evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-
-There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
-throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
-a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
-than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
-that things in general were settled for ever.
-
-It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
-as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
-blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
-heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
-made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
-ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
-messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
-deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
-earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
-from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
-to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
-communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
-brood.
-
-France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
-sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
-hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
-Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
-achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
-torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
-kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
-which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
-yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
-Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
-already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
-boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
-it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
-of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
-sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
-rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
-the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
-the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
-unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
-with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
-that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
-
-In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
-justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
-highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
-families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
-their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
-in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
-challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
-“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
-mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
-then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
-failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
-that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
-and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
-illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
-gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
-fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
-thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
-Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
-for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
-musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
-much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
-and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
-up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
-Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
-hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
-Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
-and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
-sixpence.
-
-All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
-upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
-Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
-those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
-fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
-with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
-and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
-creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
-roads that lay before them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Mail
-
-
-It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
-before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
-The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
-Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
-as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
-for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
-and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
-horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
-coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
-to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
-combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
-otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
-are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
-their duty.
-
-With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
-the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
-falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
-them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
-near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
-unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
-hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
-nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
-
-There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
-forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
-none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
-air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
-waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
-everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
-and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
-into it, as if they had made it all.
-
-Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
-side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
-ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
-anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
-hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
-the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
-were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
-the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
-when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
-“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
-non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
-of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
-thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
-he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
-and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
-loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
-deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
-
-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
-the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
-all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
-the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
-taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
-journey.
-
-“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
-top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
-it!--Joe!”
-
-“Halloa!” the guard replied.
-
-“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”
-
-“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
-
-“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
-yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
-
-The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
-made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
-suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
-passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
-stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
-had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
-into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
-getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
-
-The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
-stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
-the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
-
-“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
-box.
-
-“What do you say, Tom?”
-
-They both listened.
-
-“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”
-
-“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
-of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
-name, all of you!”
-
-With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
-the offensive.
-
-The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
-the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
-remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
-in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
-and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
-back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
-his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
-
-The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
-of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
-indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
-the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
-passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
-quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
-the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
-
-The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
-
-“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
-I shall fire!”
-
-The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
-a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”
-
-“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”
-
-“Why do you want to know?”
-
-“I want a passenger, if it is.”
-
-“What passenger?”
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”
-
-Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
-the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
-
-“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
-“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
-your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”
-
-“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
-speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”
-
-(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
-himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)
-
-“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“What is the matter?”
-
-“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”
-
-“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
-road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
-passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
-pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
-
-“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
-guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”
-
-“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
-
-“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
-saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
-at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
-now let's look at you.”
-
-The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
-and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
-stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
-a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
-rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
-the man.
-
-“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
-
-The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
-blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
-answered curtly, “Sir.”
-
-“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
-know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
-to drink. I may read this?”
-
-“If so be as you're quick, sir.”
-
-He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
-read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
-It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
-TO LIFE.”
-
-Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
- said he, at his hoarsest.
-
-“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
-well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”
-
-With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
-all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
-their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
-pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
-the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
-
-The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
-it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
-in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
-having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
-looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
-few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
-furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
-and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
-himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
-and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
-five minutes.
-
-“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.
-
-“Hallo, Joe.”
-
-“Did you hear the message?”
-
-“I did, Joe.”
-
-“What did you make of it, Tom?”
-
-“Nothing at all, Joe.”
-
-“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
-myself.”
-
-Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
-only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
-shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
-holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
-heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
-hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
-hill.
-
-“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
-fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
-glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
-message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
-be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
-Jerry!”
-
-
-
-
-III. The Night Shadows
-
-
-A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
-constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
-solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
-one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
-room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
-heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
-its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
-awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
-turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
-to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
-water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
-of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
-book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
-but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
-eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
-in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
-my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
-consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
-individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
-any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
-a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
-innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
-
-As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
-messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
-first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
-three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
-coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
-been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
-breadth of a county between him and the next.
-
-The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
-ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
-own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
-assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
-no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
-were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
-far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
-a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
-throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
-for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
-poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
-muffled again.
-
-“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
-“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
-suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
-been a drinking!”
-
-His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
-times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
-which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
-over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
-so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
-wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
-have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
-
-While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
-watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
-was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
-night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
-shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
-They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
-
-What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
-its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
-likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
-their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
-
-Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
-passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
-lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
-and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
-jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
-coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
-bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
-stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
-and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
-all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
-the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
-stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
-little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
-them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
-safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
-
-But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
-(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
-always with him, there was another current of impression that never
-ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
-out of a grave.
-
-Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
-was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
-not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
-years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
-and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
-defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
-so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
-and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
-prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
-spectre:
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-“You know that you are recalled to life?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”
-
-The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
-the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
- Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
-“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
-was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”
-
-After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
-and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
-hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
-hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
-passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
-reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
-
-Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
-patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
-by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
-of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
-real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
-sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
-of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
-it again.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“I hope you care to live?”
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
-passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
-securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
-slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
-slid away into the bank and the grave.
-
-“Buried how long?”
-
-“Almost eighteen years.”
-
-“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
-
-“Long ago.”
-
-The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
-his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
-passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
-shadows of the night were gone.
-
-He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
-ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
-last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
-in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
-upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
-and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
-
-“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
-Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
-
-
-
-
-IV. The Preparation
-
-
-When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
-the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
-custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
-from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
-traveller upon.
-
-By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
-congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
-roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
-and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
-like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
-of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
-muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
-
-“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
-
-“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
-tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
-sir?”
-
-“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”
-
-“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
-Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
-gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
-Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”
-
-The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
-mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
-head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
-Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
-all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
-drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
-loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
-and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
-brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
-square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
-his breakfast.
-
-The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
-in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
-with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
-that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
-
-Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
-loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
-as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
-evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
-of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
-fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
-wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
-head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
-looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
-His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
-was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
-beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
-face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
-quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
-their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
-reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
-cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
-But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
-principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
-second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
-
-Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
-Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
-and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
-
-“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
-time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
-gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
-their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
-vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”
-
-“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”
-
-“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
-sir?”
-
-“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
-from France.”
-
-“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
-time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
-Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
-years ago?”
-
-“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
-the truth.”
-
-“Indeed, sir!”
-
-Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
-table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
-dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
-he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
-immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
-
-When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
-the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
-from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
-ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
-wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
-destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
-brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
-a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
-dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
-fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
-night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
-made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
-sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
-that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
-
-As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
-at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
-again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
-too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
-his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
-digging, digging, in the live red coals.
-
-A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
-harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
-Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
-glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
-ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
-got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
-street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
-
-He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.
-
-In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
-had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
-Tellson's.
-
-“So soon?”
-
-Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
-then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
-immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
-
-The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
-glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
-wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
-It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
-horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
-oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
-were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
-graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
-from them until they were dug out.
-
-The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
-way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
-the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
-candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
-the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
-and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
-his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
-hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
-a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
-it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
-not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
-fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
-eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
-of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
-Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
-high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
-the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
-procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
-offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
-feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
-
-“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
-little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
-
-“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
-date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
-
-“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
-some intelligence--or discovery--”
-
-“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
-
-“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
-long dead--”
-
-Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
-hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
-anybody in their absurd baskets!
-
-“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
-with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
-the purpose.”
-
-“Myself.”
-
-“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”
-
-She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
-pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
-was than she. He made her another bow.
-
-“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
-those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
-France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
-me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
-during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
-gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
-beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
-
-“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
-be more happy to execute it.”
-
-“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
-by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
-business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
-nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
-strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
-
-“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”
-
-After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
-ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”
-
-He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
-forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
-and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
-as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
-shadow.
-
-“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
-
-“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
-an argumentative smile.
-
-Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
-which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
-deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
-she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
-moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
-
-“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
-as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”
-
-“If you please, sir.”
-
-“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
-acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
-if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
-your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
-
-“Story!”
-
-He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
-in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
-our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
-gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”
-
-“Not of Beauvais?”
-
-“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
-gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
-Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
-time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”
-
-“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”
-
-“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
-I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
-French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
-In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
-scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
-there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
-sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
-business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
-the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
-machine. To go on--”
-
-“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
-curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
-left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
-it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
-to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
-conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
-the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
-his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
-down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
-
-“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
-just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
-with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
-that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
-Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
-Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
-of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
-Mangle.”
-
-After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
-flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
-unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
-before), and resumed his former attitude.
-
-“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
-regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
-when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”
-
-She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
-
-“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
-the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
-him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
-business. As I was saying--”
-
-Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
-
-“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
-and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
-been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
-trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
-privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
-to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
-privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
-to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
-implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
-him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
-been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”
-
-“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
-
-“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”
-
-“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
-moment.”
-
-“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
-his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
-Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
-if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
-had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
-born--”
-
-“The little child was a daughter, sir.”
-
-“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
-poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
-that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
-inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
-rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
-Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
-
-“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
-
-“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
-business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
-mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
-shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
-much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
-
-Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
-very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
-his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
-communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
-
-“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
-you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
-you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
-her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
-to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
-upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
-heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
-
-As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
-flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
-been already tinged with grey.
-
-“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
-they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
-discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
-
-He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
-forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
-now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
-
-“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
-probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
-Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
-in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
-restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
-
-A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
-low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
-
-“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”
-
-Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
-there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
-You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
-sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
-
-She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
-have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
-
-“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
-wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
-another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
-worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
-know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
-held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
-because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
-anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
-events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
-Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
-the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
-to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
-and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
-which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
-word! Miss Manette!”
-
-Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
-sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
-upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
-branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
-feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
-out loudly for assistance without moving.
-
-A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
-be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
-extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
-wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
-or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
-inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
-poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
-flying back against the nearest wall.
-
-(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
-reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
-
-“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
-“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
-at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
-things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
-water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”
-
-There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
-softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
-gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
-golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
-
-“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
-“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
-to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
-you call _that_ being a Banker?”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
-answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
-sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
-servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
-not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
-regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
-upon her shoulder.
-
-“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
-
-“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
-humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”
-
-“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
-intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
-would have cast my lot in an island?”
-
-This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
-consider it.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wine-shop
-
-
-A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
-accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
-out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
-outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
-
-All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
-idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
-stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
-thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
-had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
-jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
-made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
-women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
-run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
-the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
-handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
-mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
-others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
-there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
-directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
-pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
-fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
-wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
-along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
-if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
-presence.
-
-A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
-and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
-was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
-special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
-of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
-luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
-shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
-together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
-most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
-demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
-had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
-motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
-hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
-starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
-with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
-the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
-gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
-
-The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
-in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
-stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
-wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
-on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
-stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
-Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
-tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
-head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
-upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
-
-The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
-street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
-
-And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
-gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
-heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
-waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
-but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
-terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
-fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
-passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
-in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
-had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
-children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
-grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
-was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
-of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
-lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
-paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
-firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
-chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
-among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
-baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
-bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
-was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
-chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
-farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
-drops of oil.
-
-Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
-street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
-diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
-and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
-that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
-wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
-slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
-compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
-into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
-inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
-were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
-painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
-meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
-croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
-gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
-flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
-and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
-gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
-with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
-broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
-the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
-rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
-the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
-pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
-and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
-manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
-the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
-
-For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
-should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
-long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
-up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
-condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
-France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
-song and feather, took no warning.
-
-The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
-appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
-it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
-for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
-of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
-another.”
-
-There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
-he called to him across the way:
-
-“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
-
-The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
-the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
-often the way with his tribe too.
-
-“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
-keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
-mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
-in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
-to write such words in?”
-
-In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
-perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
-own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
-attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
-hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
-practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
-
-“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
-there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
-dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
-his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
-
-This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
-and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
-bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
-His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
-the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
-crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
-eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
-the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
-resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
-down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
-the man.
-
-Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
-came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
-a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
-heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
-manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
-have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
-in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
-sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
-shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
-earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
-her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
-by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
-coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
-of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
-line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
-shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
-he stepped over the way.
-
-The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
-rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
-a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
-dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
-of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
-elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”
-
-“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
-to himself; “I don't know you.”
-
-But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
-with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
-all the spilt wine swallowed?”
-
-“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
-
-When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
-picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
-and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
-Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
-of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
-
-“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
-
-At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
-using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
-cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
-
-The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
-drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
-
-“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
-always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
-right, Jacques?”
-
-“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
-when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
-slightly rustled in her seat.
-
-“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”
-
-The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
-flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
-giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
-wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
-of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
-upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
-wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
-fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
-close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
-my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
-there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
-
-They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
-Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
-gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
-
-“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
-the door.
-
-Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
-word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
-not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
-beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
-knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
-
-Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
-joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
-company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
-and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
-by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
-gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
-to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
-a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
-transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
-in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
-angry, dangerous man.
-
-“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
- Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
-ascending the stairs.
-
-“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
-
-“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
-same low voice.
-
-“Is he always alone, then?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Of his own desire?”
-
-“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
-found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
-discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
-
-“He is greatly changed?”
-
-“Changed!”
-
-The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
-and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
-forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
-two companions ascended higher and higher.
-
-Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
-parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
-indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
-within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
-the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
-staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
-flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
-hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
-the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
-intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
-insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
-and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
-his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
-Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
-at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
-uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
-to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
-caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
-or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
-promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
-
-At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
-third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
-and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
-was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
-advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
-dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
-here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
-his shoulder, took out a key.
-
-“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
-
-“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
-
-“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
-closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
-frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
-harm--if his door was left open.”
-
-“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
-world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
-are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
-that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
-
-This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
-of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
-under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
-and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
-on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
-
-“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
-moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
-all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
-bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
-That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
-
-They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
-soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
-once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
-the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
-the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
-footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
-themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
-wine-shop.
-
-“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
-Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
-
-The three glided by, and went silently down.
-
-There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
-the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
-Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
-
-“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
-
-“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
-
-“Is that well?”
-
-“_I_ think it is well.”
-
-“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
-
-“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
-sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
-thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
-
-With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
-through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
-twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
-make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
-three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
-it as heavily as he could.
-
-The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
-room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
-than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
-
-He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
-got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
-felt that she was sinking.
-
-“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
-business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
-
-“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
-
-“Of it? What?”
-
-“I mean of him. Of my father.”
-
-Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
-their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
-shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
-down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
-
-Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
-took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
-methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
-could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
-where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
-
-The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
-and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
-roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
-the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
-other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
-door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
-Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
-was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
-alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
-requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
-done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
-towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
-him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
-busy, making shoes.
-
-
-
-
-VI. The Shoemaker
-
-
-“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
-bent low over the shoemaking.
-
-It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
-salutation, as if it were at a distance:
-
-“Good day!”
-
-“You are still hard at work, I see?”
-
-After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
-voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
-had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
-
-The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
-faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
-doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
-the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
-of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
-resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
-beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
-suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
-it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
-wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
-home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
-
-Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
-up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
-perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
-aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
-
-“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
-“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”
-
-The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
-at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
-other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“You can bear a little more light?”
-
-“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
-stress upon the second word.)
-
-The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
-angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
-showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
-labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
-feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
-long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
-thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
-dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
-otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
-His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
-to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
-stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
-from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
-parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
-
-He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
-of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
-pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
-first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
-lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
-first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
-
-“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
-motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
-
-“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”
-
-But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
-
-Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
-he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
-looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
-unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
-it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
-the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
-look and the action had occupied but an instant.
-
-“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-“Here is a visitor.”
-
-The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
-work.
-
-“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
-he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”
-
-Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
-
-“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
-
-There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
-
-“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”
-
-“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
-information?”
-
-“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
-present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
-glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
-
-“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.
-
-Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
-in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
-hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
-so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
-recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
-had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
-endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
-fast-dying man.
-
-“Did you ask me for my name?”
-
-“Assuredly I did.”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”
-
-With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
-again, until the silence was again broken.
-
-“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
-at him.
-
-His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
-question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
-on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
-
-“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
-learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”
-
-He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
-hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
-from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
-resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
-subject of last night.
-
-“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
-a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”
-
-As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
-Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
-
-“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
-
-The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
-questioner.
-
-“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
-remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
-banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
-mind, Monsieur Manette?”
-
-As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
-Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
-intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
-through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
-again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
-so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
-had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
-she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
-raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
-shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
-trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
-breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
-repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
-looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
-
-Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
-less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
-and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
-took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
-
-“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.
-
-“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
-unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
-well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”
-
-She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
-which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
-figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
-over his labour.
-
-Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
-beside him, and he bent over his work.
-
-It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
-in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
-which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
-stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
-raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
-but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
-striking at her with the knife, though they had.
-
-He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
-to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
-the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
-
-“What is this?”
-
-With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
-lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
-laid his ruined head there.
-
-“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”
-
-She sighed “No.”
-
-“Who are you?”
-
-Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
-beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
-thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
-laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
-
-Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
-aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
-little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
-he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
-shoemaking.
-
-But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
-shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
-be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
-to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
-attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
-a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
-hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
-
-He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
-the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”
-
-As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
-become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
-light, and looked at her.
-
-“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
-out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
-brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
-leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
-may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
-well.”
-
-He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
-But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
-though slowly.
-
-“How was this?--_Was it you_?”
-
-Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
-frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
-said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
-us, do not speak, do not move!”
-
-“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”
-
-His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
-hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
-shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
-tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
-gloomily shook his head.
-
-“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
-prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
-she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
-was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
-name, my gentle angel?”
-
-Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
-before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
-
-“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
-and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
-cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
-tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
-me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”
-
-His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
-lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
-
-“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
-is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
-sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
-touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
-breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
-I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
-with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
-remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
-weep for it, weep for it!”
-
-She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
-child.
-
-“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
-have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
-peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
-and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
-if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
-and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
-honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
-striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
-my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
-for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
-tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
-God for us, thank God!”
-
-He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
-touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
-had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
-
-When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
-breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
-storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
-called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
-daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
-there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
-head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
-him from the light.
-
-“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
-he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
-arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
-could be taken away--”
-
-“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
-him.”
-
-“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
-than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
-Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”
-
-“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
-methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”
-
-“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
-composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
-now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
-interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
-as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
-you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
-
-Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
-in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
-and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
-for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
-dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
-to do it.
-
-Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
-hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
-deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
-through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
-had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
-meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
-lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
-garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
-assisted him to his feet.
-
-No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
-the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
-whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
-he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
-tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
-answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
-the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
-occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
-in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
-daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
-
-In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
-ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
-and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
-his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
-in both his own.
-
-They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
-Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
-of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
-round at the walls.
-
-“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”
-
-“What did you say?”
-
-But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
-she had repeated it.
-
-“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”
-
-That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
-prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
-“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
-evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
-him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
-tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
-no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
-dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
-
-No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
-many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
-silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
-that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
-saw nothing.
-
-The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
-him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
-miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
-Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
-went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
-brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
-against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
-
-Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
-postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
-over-swinging lamps.
-
-Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
-streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
-illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
-gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
-travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
-getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
-monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
-him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
-military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
-in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
-or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
-Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
-grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
-grove of stars.
-
-Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
-this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
-rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
-is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
-All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
-whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
-man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
-lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:
-
-“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”
-
-And the old answer:
-
-“I can't say.”
-
-
-The end of the first book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Second--the Golden Thread
-
-
-
-
-I. Five Years Later
-
-
-Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
-year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
-dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
-moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
-proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
-proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
-in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
-it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
-no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
-convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
-no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
-embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
-Tellson's, thank Heaven--!
-
-Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
-question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
-on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
-suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
-objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
-
-Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
-of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
-a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
-and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
-counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
-wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
-windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
-and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
-heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
-“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
-where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
-hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
-twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
-drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
-they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
-were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
-the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
-polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
-made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
-parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
-papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
-dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
-one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
-by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
-from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
-exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
-Abyssinia or Ashantee.
-
-But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
-with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
-Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
-Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
-was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
-purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
-of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
-Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
-three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
-Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
-might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
-reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
-particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
-after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
-its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
-low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
-disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
-ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
-
-Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
-oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
-man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
-old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
-Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
-be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
-and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
-
-Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
-odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
-sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
-upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
-of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
-in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
-tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
-this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
-occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
-easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
-appellation of Jerry.
-
-The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
-Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
-morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
-always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
-the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
-popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
-
-Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
-but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
-might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
-it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
-already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
-for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
-was spread.
-
-Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
-at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
-and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
-looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
-exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
-
-“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
-
-A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
-corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
-person referred to.
-
-“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
-agin, are you?”
-
-After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
-the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
-odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
-whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
-often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
-
-“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
-mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”
-
-“I was only saying my prayers.”
-
-“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
-yourself down and praying agin me?”
-
-“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”
-
-“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
-your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
-father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
-You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
-herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
-of the mouth of her only child.”
-
-Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
-to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
-board.
-
-“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
-unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
-Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”
-
-“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
-that.”
-
-“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
-much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
-afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
-you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
-child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
-wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
-have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
-countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
-B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
-on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
-another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
-devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
-boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
-then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
-tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
-in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
-laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
-it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
-I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
-been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
-it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
-say now!”
-
-Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
-You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
-and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
-from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
-himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
-In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
-and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
-kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
-woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
-his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
---Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
-again with an undutiful grin.
-
-Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
-breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
-animosity.
-
-“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”
-
-His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
-
-“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
-to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
-ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
-blest off my table. Keep still!”
-
-Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
-which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
-his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
-inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
-aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
-he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
-of the day.
-
-It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
-description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
-a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
-young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
-beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
-with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
-from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
-feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
-Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
-itself,--and was almost as in-looking.
-
-Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
-three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
-Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
-standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
-inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
-boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
-extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
-in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
-eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
-The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
-the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
-youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
-in Fleet-street.
-
-The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
-establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
-
-“Porter wanted!”
-
-“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”
-
-Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
-the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
-had been chewing, and cogitated.
-
-“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
-“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
-rust here!”
-
-
-
-
-II. A Sight
-
-
-“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
-clerks to Jerry the messenger.
-
-“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
-know the Bailey.”
-
-“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
-better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
-in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”
-
-“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
-door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”
-
-“Into the court, sir?”
-
-“Into the court.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
-interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”
-
-“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
-conference.
-
-“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
-Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
-attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
-to remain there until he wants you.”
-
-“Is that all, sir?”
-
-“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
-you are there.”
-
-As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
-Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
-blotting-paper stage, remarked:
-
-“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”
-
-“Treason!”
-
-“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”
-
-“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
-spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”
-
-“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
-him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
-
-“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
-care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
-care of itself. I give you that advice.”
-
-“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
-leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
-
-“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
-gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
-ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”
-
-Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
-deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
-too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
-and went his way.
-
-They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
-not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
-But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
-villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
-into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
-dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
-had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
-his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
-For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
-from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
-a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
-half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
-So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
-was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
-a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
-the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
-softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
-blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
-leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
-under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
-illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
-that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
-consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
-
-Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
-hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
-way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
-his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
-at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
-former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
-doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
-criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
-
-After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
-very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
-court.
-
-“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
-to.
-
-“Nothing yet.”
-
-“What's coming on?”
-
-“The Treason case.”
-
-“The quartering one, eh?”
-
-“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
-be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
-face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
-and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
-That's the sentence.”
-
-“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.
-
-“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
-that.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
-saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
-sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
-gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
-before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
-in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
-then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
-court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
-with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
-to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
-
-“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
-
-“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.
-
-“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
-
-“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.
-
-The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
-central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
-went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
-
-Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
-ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
-at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
-pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
-stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
-laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
-themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
-upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
-Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
-of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
-whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
-the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
-that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
-in an impure mist and rain.
-
-The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
-five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
-a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
-dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
-dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
-of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
-itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
-situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
-soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
-bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
-
-The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
-was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
-horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
-details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
-fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
-was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
-and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
-spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
-powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
-
-Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
-an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
-he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
-forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
-occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
-King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
-so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
-our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
-said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
-evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
-said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
-to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
-becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
-huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
-the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
-there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
-that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
-
-The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
-beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
-the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
-attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
-and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
-composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
-it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
-vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
-
-Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
-upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
-it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
-in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
-glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
-day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
-for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
-that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
-of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
-face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
-
-It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
-which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
-in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
-immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
-aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
-
-The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
-twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
-remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
-and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
-but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
-looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
-it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
-handsome man, not past the prime of life.
-
-His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
-him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
-dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
-been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
-that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
-noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
-had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
-“Who are they?”
-
-Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
-manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
-absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
-him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
-from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
-to Jerry:
-
-“Witnesses.”
-
-“For which side?”
-
-“Against.”
-
-“Against what side?”
-
-“The prisoner's.”
-
-The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
-leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
-in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
-axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
-
-
-
-
-III. A Disappointment
-
-
-Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
-them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
-claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
-public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
-even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
-prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
-repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
-he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
-traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
-wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
-That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
-was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
-prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
-Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
-That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
-attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
-friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
-infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
-in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
-were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
-benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
-they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
-as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
-knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
-whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
-they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
-especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
-That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
-for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
-communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
-a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
-and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
-hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
-in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
-brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
-Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
-on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
-witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
-produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
-his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
-sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
-such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
-proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
-same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
-showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
-would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
-in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
-very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
-That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
-were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
-positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
-they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
-pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
-their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
-of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
-there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
-pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
-Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
-everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
-of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
-good as dead and gone.
-
-When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
-a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
-anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
-unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
-
-Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
-patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
-exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
-it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
-of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
-wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
-Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
-opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
-
-Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
-What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
-precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
-Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
-distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
-prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
-prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
-times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
-been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
-Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
-downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
-dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
-committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
-Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
-more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
-Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
-very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
-No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
-about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
-Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
-pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
-no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
-patriotism? None whatever.
-
-The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
-great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
-simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
-packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
-He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
-charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
-the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
-his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
-prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
-the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
-had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
-at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
-Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
-information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
-he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
-only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
-that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
-coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
-curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
-was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
-
-The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry.
-
-“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
-seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
-Dover by the mail?”
-
-“It did.”
-
-“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
-
-“Two.”
-
-“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
-
-“They did.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”
-
-“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
-
-“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
-
-“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
-reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
-those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
-render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”
-
-“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
-myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
-air.”
-
-“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“I certainly have seen that.”
-
-“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
-certain knowledge, before?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
-prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
-voyage with me.”
-
-“At what hour did he come on board?”
-
-“At a little after midnight.”
-
-“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
-at that untimely hour?”
-
-“He happened to be the only one.”
-
-“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
-came on board in the dead of the night?”
-
-“He was.”
-
-“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
-
-“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
-
-“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
-
-“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
-I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
-
-“Miss Manette!”
-
-The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
-turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
-kept her hand drawn through his arm.
-
-“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
-
-To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
-far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
-Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
-the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
-to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
-before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
-to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
-rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
-
-“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Where?”
-
-“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
-occasion.”
-
-“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
-
-“O! most unhappily, I am!”
-
-The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
-of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
-to you, and make no remark upon them.”
-
-“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
-passage across the Channel?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-“Recall it.”
-
-In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
-gentleman came on board--”
-
-“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
-
-“Yes, my Lord.”
-
-“Then say the prisoner.”
-
-“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
-her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
-and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
-afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
-deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
-care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
-The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
-shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
-had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
-set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
-great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
-felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
-
-“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“How many were with him?”
-
-“Two French gentlemen.”
-
-“Had they conferred together?”
-
-“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
-necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”
-
-“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”
-
-“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
-papers.”
-
-“Like these in shape and size?”
-
-“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
-near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
-light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
-spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
-they looked at papers.”
-
-“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”
-
-“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
-of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
-father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
-harm to-day.”
-
-Buzzing from the blue-flies.
-
-“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
-you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
-give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
-he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”
-
-“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
-difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
-therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
-had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
-take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
-time to come.”
-
-“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”
-
-“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
-that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
-England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
-Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
-Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
-laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
-
-Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
-a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
-unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
-anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
-she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
-the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
-expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
-of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
-when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
-heresy about George Washington.
-
-Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
-necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
-father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
-
-“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
-
-“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
-three years and a half ago.”
-
-“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
-speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
-
-“Sir, I can do neither.”
-
-“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
-either?”
-
-He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
-
-“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
-trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”
-
-He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”
-
-“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
-
-“They tell me so.”
-
-“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
-
-“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
-time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
-time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
-here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
-my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
-familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
-
-Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
-together.
-
-A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
-to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
-in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
-got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
-not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
-to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
-was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
-in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
-waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
-this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
-on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
-been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
-little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
-this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
-attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
-
-“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
-
-The witness was quite sure.
-
-“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
-
-Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
-
-“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
-to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
-prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”
-
-Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
-if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
-not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
-into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
-his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
-much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
-counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
-friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
-would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
-happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
-this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
-confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
-this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
-useless lumber.
-
-Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
-fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
-Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
-of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
-traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
-scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
-rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
-and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
-swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
-affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
-those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
-consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
-even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
-and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
-had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
-gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
-and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
-reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
-impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
-How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
-attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
-and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
-how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
-character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
-State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
-(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
-not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
-
-Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
-attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
-Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
-Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
-prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
-the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
-decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
-
-And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
-
-Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
-changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
-While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
-whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
-anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
-grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
-and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
-in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
-sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
-on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
-hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
-day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
-a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
-undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
-when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
-lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
-hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
-observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
-that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
-to get any, do he?”
-
-Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
-appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
-her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
-“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
-Don't you see she will fall!”
-
-There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
-sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
-him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
-strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
-brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
-ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
-moment, spoke, through their foreman.
-
-They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
-Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
-but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
-and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
-the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
-jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
-refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
-down.
-
-Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
-now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
-could easily get near him.
-
-“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
-way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
-behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
-are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
-before I can.”
-
-Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
-acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
-at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
-
-“How is the young lady?”
-
-“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
-feels the better for being out of court.”
-
-“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
-like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
-in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
-The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
-eyes, ears, and spikes.
-
-“Mr. Darnay!”
-
-The prisoner came forward directly.
-
-“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
-will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”
-
-“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
-for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
-
-“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
-
-Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
-half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
-
-“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
-
-“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
-Mr. Darnay?”
-
-“The worst.”
-
-“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
-withdrawing is in your favour.”
-
-Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
-more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
-in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
-them.
-
-An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
-passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
-The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
-refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
-of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
-with them.
-
-“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
-there.
-
-“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
-
-Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
-it?”
-
-“Yes, sir.”
-
-Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
-
-“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
-Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”
-
-He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
-until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
-with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
-swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
-search of other carrion.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Congratulatory
-
-
-From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
-human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
-Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
-for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
-Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
-death.
-
-It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
-in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
-shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
-twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
-had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
-to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
-reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
-lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
-from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
-itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
-unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
-Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
-hundred miles away.
-
-Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
-his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
-misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
-the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
-influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
-recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
-and slight, and she believed them over.
-
-Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
-to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
-more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
-loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
-way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
-conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
-
-He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
-late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
-out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
-Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
-less likely to succeed on that account.”
-
-“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
- said his late client, taking his hand.
-
-“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
-another man's, I believe.”
-
-It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
-said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
-object of squeezing himself back again.
-
-“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
-and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
-
-“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
-now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
-him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
-this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
-Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”
-
-“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
-do yet. Speak for yourself.”
-
-“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
-Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
- He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
-
-His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
-Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
-not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
-thoughts had wandered away.
-
-“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
-
-He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
-
-“Shall we go home, my father?”
-
-With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”
-
-The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
-impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
-released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
-passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
-and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
-gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
-Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
-the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
-departed in it.
-
-Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
-to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
-interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
-against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
-out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
-stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
-
-“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”
-
-Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
-proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
-better for it in appearance.
-
-“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
-business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
-appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”
-
-Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
-sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
-have to think of the House more than ourselves.”
-
-“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
-nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
-I dare say.”
-
-“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
-know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
-much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
-business.”
-
-“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“It is a pity you have not, sir.”
-
-“I think so, too.”
-
-“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”
-
-“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.
-
-“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
-“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
-if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
-Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
-for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
-I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
-life.--Chair there!”
-
-Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
-Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
-who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
-then, and turned to Darnay:
-
-“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
-be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
-these street stones?”
-
-“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
-again.”
-
-“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
-advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”
-
-“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”
-
-“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
-numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
-some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”
-
-Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
-Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
-shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
-his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
-opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
-before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
-
-“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
-Darnay?”
-
-“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
-mended as to feel that.”
-
-“It must be an immense satisfaction!”
-
-He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
-one.
-
-“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
-It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
-are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
-not much alike in any particular, you and I.”
-
-Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
-this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
-at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
-
-“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
-health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”
-
-“What health? What toast?”
-
-“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
-swear it's there.”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-“Miss Manette, then!”
-
-Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
-flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
-pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
- he said, filling his new goblet.
-
-A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.
-
-“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
-feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
-sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”
-
-Again Darnay answered not a word.
-
-“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
-that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”
-
-The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
-disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
-strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
-for it.
-
-“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
-“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
-it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”
-
-“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”
-
-“Do you think I particularly like you?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
-not asked myself the question.”
-
-“But ask yourself the question now.”
-
-“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”
-
-“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
-opinion of your understanding.”
-
-“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
-nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
-parting without ill-blood on either side.”
-
-Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
-reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
-bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
-ten.”
-
-The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
-Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
-of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
-I am drunk?”
-
-“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
-
-“Since I must say so, I know it.”
-
-“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
-care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
-
-“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
-
-“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
-however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”
-
-When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
-glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
-
-“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
-should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
-in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
-made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
-what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
-places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
-he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
-have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
-
-He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
-minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
-table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Jackal
-
-
-Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
-the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
-statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
-in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
-perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
-The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
-learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
-Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
-practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
-drier parts of the legal race.
-
-A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
-begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
-he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
-specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
-visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
-florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
-the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
-among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
-
-It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
-man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
-faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
-among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
-But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
-business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
-pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
-Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
-
-Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
-ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
-might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
-anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
-at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
-they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
-rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
-to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
-among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
-would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
-rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
-wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“_What's_ the matter?”
-
-“Ten o'clock, sir.”
-
-“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”
-
-“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
-
-“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
-
-After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
-dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
-he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
-and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
-Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
-
-The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
-home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
-and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
-had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
-may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
-Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
-Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
-
-“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.
-
-“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”
-
-They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
-where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
-the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
-it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
-
-“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”
-
-“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
-seeing him dine--it's all one!”
-
-“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
-identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”
-
-“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
-been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”
-
-Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
-
-“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”
-
-Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
-room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
-or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
-out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
-at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”
-
-“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
-gaily, as he looked among his papers.
-
-“How much?”
-
-“Only two sets of them.”
-
-“Give me the worst first.”
-
-“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
-
-The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
-drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
-proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
-his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
-a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
-his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
-lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
-so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
-stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
-more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
-matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
-him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
-jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
-no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
-gravity.
-
-At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
-proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
-made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
-assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
-hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
-invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
-to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
-this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
-disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
-
-“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
-Stryver.
-
-The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
-again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
-
-“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
-to-day. Every question told.”
-
-“I always am sound; am I not?”
-
-“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
-it and smooth it again.”
-
-With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
-
-“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
-his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
-old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
-now in despondency!”
-
-“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
-luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
-
-He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
-him, looking at the fire.
-
-“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
-as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
-was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
-Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
-is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
-at me.”
-
-“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
-good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”
-
-“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
-do?”
-
-“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
-your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
-do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”
-
-“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”
-
-“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
-Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
-
-“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
- pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
-mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
-picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
-didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
-nowhere.”
-
-“And whose fault was that?”
-
-“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
-driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
-that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
-thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
-Turn me in some other direction before I go.”
-
-“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
-his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”
-
-Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
-
-“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
-enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”
-
-“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”
-
-“_She_ pretty?”
-
-“Is she not?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”
-
-“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
-of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”
-
-“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
-and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
-thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
-and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”
-
-“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
-yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
-I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
-I'll get to bed.”
-
-When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
-him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
-windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
-dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
-lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
-before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
-the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
-
-Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
-on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
-wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
-perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
-from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
-fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
-A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
-houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
-pillow was wet with wasted tears.
-
-Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
-good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
-incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
-on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
-
-
-
-
-VI. Hundreds of People
-
-
-The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
-far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
-waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
-it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
-on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
-business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
-quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
-
-On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
-the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
-Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
-secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
-them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
-generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
-his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
-Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
-them.
-
-A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
-found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
-the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
-had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
-north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
-grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
-consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
-instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
-settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
-the peaches ripened in their season.
-
-The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
-of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
-though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
-glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
-place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
-
-There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
-there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
-several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
-audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
-a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
-rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
-to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
-who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
-he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
-visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
-to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
-a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
-workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
-about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
-thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
-required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
-the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
-from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
-
-Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
-its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
-His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
-ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
-he earned as much as he wanted.
-
-These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
-notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
-on the fine Sunday afternoon.
-
-“Doctor Manette at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Lucie at home?”
-
-Expected home.
-
-“Miss Pross at home?”
-
-Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
-anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
-fact.
-
-“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”
-
-Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
-birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
-make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
-agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
-by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
-that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
-rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
-the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
-delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
-themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
-stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
-with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
-time, whether he approved?
-
-There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
-communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
-all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
-he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
-the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
-and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
-the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
-changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
-Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
-bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
-dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
-
-“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
-that reminder of his sufferings about him!”
-
-“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
-
-It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
-acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
-had since improved.
-
-“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.
-
-“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
-
-“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
-express that she bore him no malice.
-
-“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
-are you?”
-
-“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
-Ladybird.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
-fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
-stature) was shortness.
-
-“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
-
-“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
-very much put out.”
-
-“May I ask the cause?”
-
-“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
-come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”
-
-“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.
-
-It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
-time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
-she exaggerated it.
-
-“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
-
-“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
-paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
-your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
-for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
- said Miss Pross.
-
-Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
-using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
-fit anything.
-
-“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
-are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”
-
-“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”
-
-“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”
-
-“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
-enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
-that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
-him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
-circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
-and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
-him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”
-
-Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
-this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
-unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
-admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
-it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
-never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
-their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
-is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
-rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
-respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
-mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
-Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
-better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
-
-“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
-Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
-mistake in life.”
-
-Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
-established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
-who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
-speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
-no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
-(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
-matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
-
-“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
-business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
-sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
-in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”
-
-“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
-refer to it within himself.”
-
-“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”
-
-“I do,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
-short with:
-
-“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”
-
-“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
-sometimes?”
-
-“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
-bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
-theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
-the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
-oppressor?”
-
-“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”
-
-“And that is--?”
-
-“That she thinks he has.”
-
-“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
-mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”
-
-“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
-
-Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
-no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
-Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
-he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
-though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
-intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
-attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
-Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
-zealous interest.”
-
-“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
-me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
-of the whole subject.”
-
-“Afraid?”
-
-“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
-remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
-knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
-feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
-subject pleasant, I should think.”
-
-It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
-he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
-Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
-always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
-it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”
-
-“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
-string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
-In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
-the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
-up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
-know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
-his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
-and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
-a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
-best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
-together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
-brought him to himself.”
-
-Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
-perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
-in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
-her possessing such a thing.
-
-The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
-had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
-seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
-set it going.
-
-“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
-“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”
-
-It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
-peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
-looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
-they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
-the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
-heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
-at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
-was ready at the street door to receive them.
-
-Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
-off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
-with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
-folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
-as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
-had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
-sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
-her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
-playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
-chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
-them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
-eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
-have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
-beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
-stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
-Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
-for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
-
-Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
-the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
-always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
-quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
-contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
-better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
-kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
-impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
-impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
-of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
-who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
-or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
-a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
-pleased.
-
-On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
-persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
-regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
-which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
-Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
-to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
-
-It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
-wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
-there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
-they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
-the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
-time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
-plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
-and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
-whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
-
-Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
-presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
-was only One.
-
-Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
-suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
-retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
-disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
-jerks.”
-
-The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
-resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
-they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
-his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
-likeness.
-
-He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
-vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
-plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
-which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
-the Tower?”
-
-“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
-it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”
-
-“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
-though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
-character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
-curious thing when I was there.”
-
-“What was that?” Lucie asked.
-
-“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
-had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
-its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
-prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
-in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
-execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
-some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
-At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
-examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
-legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
-were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
-that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
-floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
-earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
-the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
-or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
-had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”
-
-“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”
-
-He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
-his look quite terrified them all.
-
-“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
-made me start. We had better go in.”
-
-He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
-drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
-said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
-of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
-either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
-towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
-when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
-
-He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
-his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
-steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
-was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
-that the rain had startled him.
-
-Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
-her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
-made only Two.
-
-The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
-windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
-done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
-heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
-leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
-the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
-ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
-
-“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
-Manette. “It comes slowly.”
-
-“It comes surely,” said Carton.
-
-They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
-dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
-
-There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
-get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
-resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
-footstep was there.
-
-“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
-listened for a while.
-
-“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
-sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
-a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
-solemn--”
-
-“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”
-
-“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
-originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
-sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
-the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
-by-and-bye into our lives.”
-
-“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
- Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
-
-The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
-rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
-as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
-coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
-the distant streets, and not one within sight.
-
-“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
-are we to divide them among us?”
-
-“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
-asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
-then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
-into my life, and my father's.”
-
-“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
-stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
-and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
-had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
-
-“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
-come, fast, fierce, and furious!”
-
-It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
-for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
-lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
-interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
-midnight.
-
-The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
-Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
-forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
-of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
-of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
-usually performed a good two hours earlier.
-
-“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
-bring the dead out of their graves.”
-
-“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
-would do that,” answered Jerry.
-
-“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
-Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”
-
-Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
-bearing down upon them, too.
-
-
-
-
-VII. Monseigneur in Town
-
-
-Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
-fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
-his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
-the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
-was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
-things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
-rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
-much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
-strong men besides the Cook.
-
-Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
-Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
-pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
-conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
-the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
-the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
-a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
-watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
-dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
-place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
-his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
-men; he must have died of two.
-
-Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
-and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
-a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
-impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
-more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
-state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
-for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
-favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
-days of the merry Stuart who sold it.
-
-Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
-was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
-business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
-his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
-particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
-was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
-by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
-thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”
-
-Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
-his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
-affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
-public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
-must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
-private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
-generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
-Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
-time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
-wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
-poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
-a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
-rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
-mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
-down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
-
-A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
-stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
-waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
-forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
-relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
-among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
-
-For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
-every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
-achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
-reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
-so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
-equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
-have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
-been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
-destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
-civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
-worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
-all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
-pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
-Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
-anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
-score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
-yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
-passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
-no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
-for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
-patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
-discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
-State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
-root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
-they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
-Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
-card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
-Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
-wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
-the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
-since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
-subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
-exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
-notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
-among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
-of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
-the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
-appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
-bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
-towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
-known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
-and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
-supped as at twenty.
-
-The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
-upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
-people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
-things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
-them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
-sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
-whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
-spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
-Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
-three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
-jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
-Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
-out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
-the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
-by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
-discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
-became manifest.
-
-But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
-Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
-ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
-correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
-delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
-swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
-surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
-of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
-languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
-and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
-fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
-his devouring hunger far away.
-
-Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
-things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
-was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
-Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
-of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
-descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
-required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
-and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
-rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
-Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
-him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
-Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
-of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
-hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
-see the very stars out!
-
-Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
-chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
-open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
-fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
-body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
-been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
-troubled it.
-
-Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
-happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
-passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
-Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
-course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
-sprites, and was seen no more.
-
-The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
-and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
-but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
-and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
-way out.
-
-“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
-and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”
-
-With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
-dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
-
-He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
-with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
-feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
-beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
-of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
-change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
-colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
-by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
-treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
-attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
-line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
-too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
-handsome face, and a remarkable one.
-
-Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
-drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
-stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
-in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
-to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
-often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
-charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
-check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
-sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
-that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
-custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
-barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
-time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
-left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
-
-With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
-consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
-dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
-before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
-its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
-wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
-number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
-
-But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
-stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
-behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
-and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
-
-“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
-
-A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
-the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
-down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
-
-“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
-a child.”
-
-“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”
-
-“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”
-
-The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
-into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
-got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
-Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
-
-“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
-their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”
-
-The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
-nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
-and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
-people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
-remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
-and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
-over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
-
-He took out his purse.
-
-“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
-of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
-the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
-him that.”
-
-He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
-craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
-tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”
-
-He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
-made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
-sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
-stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
-were as silent, however, as the men.
-
-“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
-Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
-live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
-as happily?”
-
-“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
-they call you?”
-
-“They call me Defarge.”
-
-“Of what trade?”
-
-“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”
-
-“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
-throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
-there; are they right?”
-
-Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
-Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
-air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
-paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
-disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
-
-“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”
-
-He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
-moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
-the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
-figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
-
-“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
-except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
-willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
-threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
-should be crushed under the wheels.”
-
-So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
-what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
-a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
-But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
-Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
-contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
-leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”
-
-He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
-succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
-Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
-whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
-had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
-on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
-spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
-which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
-bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
-while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
-of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
-had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
-of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
-into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
-time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
-in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
-things ran their course.
-
-
-
-
-VIII. Monseigneur in the Country
-
-
-A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
-Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
-and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
-inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
-tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
-disposition to give up, and wither away.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
-lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
-a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
-no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
-occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
-sun.
-
-The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
-gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
-die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”
-
-In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
-heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
-hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
-quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
-left when the drag was taken off.
-
-But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
-at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
-church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
-fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
-as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
-coming near home.
-
-The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
-tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
-fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
-its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
-shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
-fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
-the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
-were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
-for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
-paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
-the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.
-
-Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
-their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
-terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
-or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
-
-Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
-whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
-if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
-his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
-fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
-He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
-sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
-meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
-truth through the best part of a hundred years.
-
-Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
-drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
-Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
-drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
-of the roads joined the group.
-
-“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.
-
-The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
-to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
-
-“I passed you on the road?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”
-
-“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is true.”
-
-“What did you look at, so fixedly?”
-
-“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”
-
-He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
-carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
-
-“What man, pig? And why look there?”
-
-“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”
-
-“Who?” demanded the traveller.
-
-“Monseigneur, the man.”
-
-“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
-know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”
-
-“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
-all the days of my life, I never saw him.”
-
-“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”
-
-“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
-His head hanging over--like this!”
-
-He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
-face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
-himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
-
-“What was he like?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
-white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”
-
-The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
-eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
-the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
-conscience.
-
-“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
-vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
-and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
-Gabelle!”
-
-Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
-united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
-examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
-official manner.
-
-“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.
-
-“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
-to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”
-
-“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”
-
-“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”
-
-The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
-particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
-half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
-presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
-
-“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”
-
-“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
-a person plunges into the river.”
-
-“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”
-
-The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
-wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
-to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
-they might not have been so fortunate.
-
-The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
-rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
-it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
-sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
-gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
-points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
-courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
-
-At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
-with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
-figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
-studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
-dreadfully spare and thin.
-
-To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
-growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
-turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
-presented herself at the carriage-door.
-
-“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”
-
-With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
-Monseigneur looked out.
-
-“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”
-
-“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”
-
-“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
-cannot pay something?”
-
-“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”
-
-“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”
-
-“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
-grass.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”
-
-“Again, well?”
-
-She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
-grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
-with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
-caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
-feel the appealing touch.
-
-“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
-want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”
-
-“Again, well? Can I feed them?”
-
-“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
-that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
-over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
-forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
-shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
-are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
-Monseigneur!”
-
-The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
-a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
-behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
-diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
-his chateau.
-
-The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
-the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
-at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
-of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
-man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
-could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
-in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
-stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
-been extinguished.
-
-The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
-was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
-for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
-of his chateau was opened to him.
-
-“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”
-
-“Monseigneur, not yet.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Gorgon's Head
-
-
-It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
-with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
-staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
-business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
-stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
-all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
-finished, two centuries ago.
-
-Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
-to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
-of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
-flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
-door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
-in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
-save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
-those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
-heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
-
-The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
-hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
-grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
-peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
-was angry.
-
-Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
-Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
-the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
-to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
-others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
-the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
-befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
-The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
-break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
-but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
-pages in the history of France.
-
-A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
-room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
-lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
-closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
-black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
-
-“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
-said he was not arrived.”
-
-Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
-
-“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
-table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
-
-In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
-sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
-he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
-lips, when he put it down.
-
-“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
-horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
-
-“Monseigneur? That?”
-
-“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”
-
-It was done.
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
-here.”
-
-The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
-the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
-for instructions.
-
-“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”
-
-That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
-half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
-hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
-front of the chateau.
-
-“Ask who is arrived.”
-
-It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
-Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
-rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
-He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
-
-He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
-there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
-He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
-
-Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
-hands.
-
-“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
-seat at table.
-
-“Yesterday. And you?”
-
-“I come direct.”
-
-“From London?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.
-
-“On the contrary; I come direct.”
-
-“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
-intending the journey.”
-
-“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
-answer--“various business.”
-
-“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.
-
-So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
-When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
-looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
-fine mask, opened a conversation.
-
-“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
-took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
-a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
-sustained me.”
-
-“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”
-
-“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
-the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”
-
-The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
-lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
-graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
-breeding that it was not reassuring.
-
-“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
-expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
-circumstances that surrounded me.”
-
-“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.
-
-“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
-deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
-and would know no scruple as to means.”
-
-“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
-two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”
-
-“I recall it.”
-
-“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
-
-His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
-instrument.
-
-“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
-bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
-France here.”
-
-“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
-“Dare I ask you to explain?”
-
-“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
-been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
-have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”
-
-“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
-of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
-Pray excuse me!”
-
-“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
-yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.
-
-“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
-politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
-consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
-your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
-yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
-at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
-aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
-might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
-and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
-(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
-things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
-of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
-dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
-one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
-some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
-lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
-assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
-to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
-bad!”
-
-The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
-as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
-containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
-
-“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
-time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
-more detested than any name in France.”
-
-“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
-involuntary homage of the low.”
-
-“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
-look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
-deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”
-
-“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
-merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
-Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
-crossed his legs.
-
-But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
-thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
-him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
-and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
-indifference.
-
-“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
-and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
-obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
-out the sky.”
-
-That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
-chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
-they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
-him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
-the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
-he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
-way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
-was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
-
-“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
-of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
-terminate our conference for the night?”
-
-“A moment more.”
-
-“An hour, if you please.”
-
-“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
-of wrong.”
-
-“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
-and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
-
-“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
-to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
-a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
-our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
-when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
-inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”
-
-“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.
-
-“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
-frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
-execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
-look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
-redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”
-
-“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
-breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
-will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”
-
-Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
-cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
-quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
-touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
-a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
-body, and said,
-
-“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
-lived.”
-
-When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
-box in his pocket.
-
-“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
-bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
-Monsieur Charles, I see.”
-
-“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
-renounce them.”
-
-“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
-is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”
-
-“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
-to me from you, to-morrow--”
-
-“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”
-
-“--or twenty years hence--”
-
-“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
-supposition.”
-
-“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
-relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
-
-“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
-under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
-mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
-and suffering.”
-
-“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
-
-“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
-qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
-weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
-it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
-another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
-on it, and on all this land.”
-
-“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
-philosophy, graciously intend to live?”
-
-“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
-their backs, may have to do some day--work.”
-
-“In England, for example?”
-
-“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
-family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”
-
-The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
-lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
-Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
-valet.
-
-“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
-prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
-with a smile.
-
-“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
-be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”
-
-“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
-know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“With a daughter?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
-in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
-which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
-time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
-straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
-looked handsomely diabolic.
-
-“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
-commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”
-
-It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
-outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
-looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
-
-“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
-again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
-chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
-added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
-valet to his own bedroom.
-
-The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
-loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
-night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
-noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
-enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
-periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
-coming on.
-
-He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
-scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
-toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
-prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
-the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
-chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
-the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
-tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”
-
-“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”
-
-So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
-gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
-with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
-
-The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
-for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
-rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
-very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
-the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
-hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
-
-For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
-stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
-dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
-The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
-were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
-have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
-taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
-the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
-the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
-freed.
-
-The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
-at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
-minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
-hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
-and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
-
-Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
-trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
-of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
-crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
-weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
-the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
-At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
-mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
-
-Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
-windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
-shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
-lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
-fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
-and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
-out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
-and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
-prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
-foot.
-
-The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
-surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
-reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
-now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
-round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
-doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
-pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
-
-All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
-return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
-chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
-figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
-everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
-
-What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
-at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
-much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
-peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
-to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
-no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
-down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
-fountain.
-
-All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
-in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
-emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
-in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
-on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
-trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
-the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
-all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
-on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
-highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
-into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
-himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
-and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
-a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
-(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
-the German ballad of Leonora?
-
-It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
-
-The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
-the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
-through about two hundred years.
-
-It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
-mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
-heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
-was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
-
-“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”
-
-
-
-
-X. Two Promises
-
-
-More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
-Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
-language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
-would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
-young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
-living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
-its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
-sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
-at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
-to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
-dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
-tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
-profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
-work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
-known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
-circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
-So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
-
-In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
-to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
-would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
-did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
-
-A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
-read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
-contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
-and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
-London.
-
-Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
-when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
-invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
-woman.
-
-He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
-heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
-he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
-confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
-him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
-at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
-long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
-mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
-much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
-
-That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
-summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
-he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
-of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
-day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
-
-He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
-which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
-their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
-very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
-of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
-sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
-exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
-frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
-
-He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
-ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
-sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
-
-“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
-return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
-both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”
-
-“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
-a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
-Manette--”
-
-“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
-delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
-soon be home.”
-
-“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
-being from home, to beg to speak to you.”
-
-There was a blank silence.
-
-“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
-and speak on.”
-
-He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
-easy.
-
-“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
- so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
-on which I am about to touch may not--”
-
-He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
-had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
-
-“Is Lucie the topic?”
-
-“She is.”
-
-“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
-to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”
-
-“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
-Manette!” he said deferentially.
-
-There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
-
-“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”
-
-His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
-originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
-Darnay hesitated.
-
-“Shall I go on, sir?”
-
-Another blank.
-
-“Yes, go on.”
-
-“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
-I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
-the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
-laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
-disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
-her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”
-
-The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
-ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
-and cried:
-
-“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”
-
-His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
-Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
-extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
-so received it, and remained silent.
-
-“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
-moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”
-
-He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
-raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
-overshadowed his face:
-
-“Have you spoken to Lucie?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Nor written?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
-to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
-you.”
-
-He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
-
-“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
-Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
-you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
-belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
-can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
-child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
-with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
-is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
-itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
-now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
-years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
-early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
-you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
-hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
-in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
-you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
-neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
-own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
-loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
-have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”
-
-Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
-little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
-
-“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
-with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
-long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
-now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
-your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
-Heaven is my witness that I love her!”
-
-“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
-before now. I believe it.”
-
-“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
-struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
-that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
-put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
-word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
-should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
-a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
-heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
-now touch this honoured hand.”
-
-He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
-
-“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
-you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
-you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
-in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
-life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
-with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
-come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”
-
-His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
-moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
-his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
-conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
-occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
-
-“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
-you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
-you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”
-
-“None. As yet, none.”
-
-“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
-ascertain that, with my knowledge?”
-
-“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
-might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”
-
-“Do you seek any guidance from me?”
-
-“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
-in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”
-
-“Do you seek any promise from me?”
-
-“I do seek that.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
-understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
-innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
-could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”
-
-“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”
-
-“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
-favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
-Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
-word, to save my life.”
-
-“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
-well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
-delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
-respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
-heart.”
-
-“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
-supplied the rest.
-
-“Is sought by any other suitor?”
-
-“It is what I meant to say.”
-
-Her father considered a little before he answered:
-
-“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
-occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”
-
-“Or both,” said Darnay.
-
-“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
-a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”
-
-“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
-part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
-bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
-may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
-me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
-condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
-require, I will observe immediately.”
-
-“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
-your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
-believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
-between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
-that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
-If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”
-
-The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
-the Doctor spoke:
-
-“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
-new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
-thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
-sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
-than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”
-
-So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
-his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
-hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
-
-“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
-“What was it you said to me?”
-
-He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
-condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
-
-“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
-part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
-not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
-why I am in England.”
-
-“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.
-
-“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
-secret from you.”
-
-“Stop!”
-
-For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
-another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
-
-“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
-should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
-promise?”
-
-“Willingly.
-
-“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
-should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”
-
-It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
-darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
-Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
-reading-chair empty.
-
-“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”
-
-Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
-bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
-his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
-blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”
-
-Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
-his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
-her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
-together for a long time.
-
-She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
-slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
-work, were all as usual.
-
-
-
-
-XI. A Companion Picture
-
-
-“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
-jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”
-
-Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
-and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
-a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
-of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
-arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
-November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
-bring grist to the mill again.
-
-Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
-application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
-through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
-the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
-his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
-intervals for the last six hours.
-
-“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
-his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
-his back.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
-surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
-shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”
-
-“_Do_ you?”
-
-“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”
-
-“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“Do I know her?”
-
-“Guess.”
-
-“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
-frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
-me to dinner.”
-
-“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
-posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
-because you are such an insensible dog.”
-
-“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
-sensitive and poetical spirit--”
-
-“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
-any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
-I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”
-
-“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”
-
-“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”
-
-“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.
-
-“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
-inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
-be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
-to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”
-
-“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
-way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
-as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
-moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
-hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
-Sydney!”
-
-“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
-be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
-to me.”
-
-“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
-rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
-to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
-fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”
-
-Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
-
-“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
-myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
-Why do I do it?”
-
-“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.
-
-“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
-get on.”
-
-“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
- answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
-to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”
-
-He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
-
-“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
-delivered in no very soothing tone.
-
-“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
-“Who is the lady?”
-
-“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
-Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
-for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
-half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
-make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
-me in slighting terms.”
-
-“I did?”
-
-“Certainly; and in these chambers.”
-
-Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
-drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
-
-“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
-lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
-delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
-little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
-You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
-think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
-a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
-of mine, who had no ear for music.”
-
-Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
-looking at his friend.
-
-“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
-fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
-please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
-will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
-and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
-but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
-astonished?”
-
-“You approve?”
-
-Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”
-
-“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
-you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
-be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
-ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
-enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
-feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
-inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
-that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
-credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
-say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
-know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
-you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
-you really ought to think about a nurse.”
-
-The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
-big as he was, and four times as offensive.
-
-“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
-I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
-you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
-you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
-understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
-respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
-or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
-kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”
-
-“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.
-
-
-
-
-XII. The Fellow of Delicacy
-
-
-Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
-fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
-to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
-debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
-well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
-at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
-before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
-and Hilary.
-
-As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
-saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
-grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
-plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
-plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
-the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
-consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
-case could be.
-
-Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
-proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
-Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
-himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
-
-Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
-while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
-Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
-on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
-along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
-seen how safe and strong he was.
-
-His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
-knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
-Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
-of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
-in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
-cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
-Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
-bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
-under the clouds were a sum.
-
-“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”
-
-It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
-place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
-in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
-squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
-the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
-the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
-
-The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
-recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
-you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
-of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
-hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
-self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
-
-“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
-business character.
-
-“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
-have come for a private word.”
-
-“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
-to the House afar off.
-
-“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
-desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
-be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
-in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
-visitor dubiously.
-
-“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
-What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”
-
-“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
-appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
-my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
-Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
-manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
-“you know there really is so much too much of you!”
-
-“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
-opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
-Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”
-
-Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
-end, and bit the feather of a pen.
-
-“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”
-
-“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
-eligible, you are eligible.”
-
-“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.
-
-“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“And advancing?”
-
-“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
-able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”
-
-“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
-perceptibly crestfallen.
-
-“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
-
-“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”
-
-“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
-shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
-have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”
-
-“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
-having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”
-
-“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
-Stryver.
-
-“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
-a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
-complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
-head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
-been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
-
-“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
-when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
-causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
-lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
-young lady. The young lady goes before all.”
-
-“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
-elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
-present in question is a mincing Fool?”
-
-“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
-reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
-from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
-taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
-not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
-this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
-mind.”
-
-The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
-blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
-Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
-no better state now it was his turn.
-
-“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
-be no mistake about it.”
-
-Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
-hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
-toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
-
-“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
-to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
-bar?”
-
-“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”
-
-“Yes, I do.”
-
-“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”
-
-“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
-this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”
-
-“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
-not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
-business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
-Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
-of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
-spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
-may not be right?”
-
-“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
-parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
-in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
-new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”
-
-“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
-understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
-will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
-gentleman breathing.”
-
-“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.
-
-“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
-painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
-Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
-painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
-know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
-the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
-in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
-little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
-it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
-soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
-with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
-best spared. What do you say?”
-
-“How long would you keep me in town?”
-
-“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
-evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”
-
-“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
-hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
-in to-night. Good morning.”
-
-Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
-concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
-bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
-of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
-always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
-believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
-the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
-
-The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
-gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
-moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
-swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
-forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
-out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”
-
-It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
-great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
-Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”
-
-Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
-Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
-purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
-the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
-altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.
-
-“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
-bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
-Soho.”
-
-“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
-thinking of!”
-
-“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
-conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
-advice.”
-
-“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
-am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
-account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
-us say no more about it.”
-
-“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
-final way; “no matter, no matter.”
-
-“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.
-
-“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
-sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
-not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
-done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
-repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
-aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
-a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
-glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
-for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
-have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
-proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
-certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
-that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
-giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
-will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
-I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
-And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
-and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
-you were right, it never would have done.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
-Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
-showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
-“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
-thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”
-
-Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
-was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy
-
-
-If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
-house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
-and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
-cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
-which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
-pierced by the light within him.
-
-And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
-and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
-he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
-transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
-figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
-of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
-in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
-brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
-into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
-him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
-it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
-neighbourhood.
-
-On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
-that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
-delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
-City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
-for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
-those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
-animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
-they took him to the Doctor's door.
-
-He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
-never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
-embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
-his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
-a change in it.
-
-“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
-is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”
-
-“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
-live no better life?”
-
-“God knows it is a shame!”
-
-“Then why not change it?”
-
-Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
-there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
-answered:
-
-“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
-sink lower, and be worse.”
-
-He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
-table trembled in the silence that followed.
-
-She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
-be so, without looking at her, and said:
-
-“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
-what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”
-
-“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
-it would make me very glad!”
-
-“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”
-
-He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
-
-“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
-one who died young. All my life might have been.”
-
-“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
-sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”
-
-“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
-mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
-it!”
-
-She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
-of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
-been holden.
-
-“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
-love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
-poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
-conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
-bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
-disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
-no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
-be.”
-
-“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
-you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
-confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
-little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
-no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
-
-He shook his head.
-
-“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
-little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
-you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
-been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
-home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
-died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
-I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
-old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
-have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
-sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
-a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
-but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
-
-“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
-
-“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
-undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
-weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
-heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
-its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
-service, idly burning away.”
-
-“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
-than you were before you knew me--”
-
-“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
-anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
-
-“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
-attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
-make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
-good, with you, at all?”
-
-“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
-here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
-the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
-and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
-deplore and pity.”
-
-“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
-all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”
-
-“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
-and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
-me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
-was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
-alone, and will be shared by no one?”
-
-“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”
-
-“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
-yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”
-
-“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”
-
-He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
-
-“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
-conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
-again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
-the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
-shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
-to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
-in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”
-
-He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
-sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
-down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
-stood looking back at her.
-
-“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
-hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
-but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
-wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
-shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
-what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
-to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”
-
-“I will, Mr. Carton.”
-
-“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
-you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
-between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
-it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
-you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
-there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
-embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
-me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
-thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
-ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
-and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
-grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
-happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
-beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
-a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”
-
-He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Honest Tradesman
-
-
-To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
-Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
-variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
-upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
-not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
-westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
-both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
-the sun goes down!
-
-With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
-like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
-watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
-running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
-since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
-women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
-Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
-companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
-to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
-have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
-the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
-purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
-
-Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
-the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
-but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
-
-It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
-few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
-unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
-Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
-unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
-attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
-funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
-funeral, which engendered uproar.
-
-“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
-buryin'.”
-
-“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.
-
-The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
-significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
-his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
-
-“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
-to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
-_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
-let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
-hear?”
-
-“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
-
-“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
-harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
-
-His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
-round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
-there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
-considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
-appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
-surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
-incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
- with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
-
-Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
-always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
-Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
-excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
-
-“What is it, brother? What's it about?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
-
-He asked another man. “Who is it?”
-
-“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
-nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
-greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
-
-At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
-against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
-funeral of one Roger Cly.
-
-“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
-Spi--i--ies!”
-
-“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
-assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”
-
-“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
-out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”
-
-The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
-that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
-suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
-so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
-doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
-for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
-that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
-shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
-other symbolical tears.
-
-These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
-enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
-crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
-They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
-out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
-its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
-much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
-the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
-while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
-exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
-was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
-the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
-coach.
-
-The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
-the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
-remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
-members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
-The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
-hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
-close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
-by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
-popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
-ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
-bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
-that part of the procession in which he walked.
-
-Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
-caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
-at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
-was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
-in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
-accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
-highly to its own satisfaction.
-
-The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
-providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
-genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
-passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
-was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
-the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
-they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
-window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
-and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
-been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
-the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
-coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
-the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
-progress of a mob.
-
-Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
-behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
-The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
-neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
-maturely considering the spot.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
-“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
-was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”
-
-Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
-himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
-station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
-his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
-amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
-man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
-his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
-
-Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
-job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
-usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
-
-“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
-entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
-shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
-for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
-
-The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
-
-“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
-angry apprehension.
-
-“I am saying nothing.”
-
-“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
-You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry.”
-
-“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
-yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
-but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
-ironical dissatisfaction.
-
-“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
-bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
-oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
-
-“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
-another bite.
-
-“Yes, I am.”
-
-“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
-
-“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
-where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”
-
-“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”
-
-“Never you mind.”
-
-“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
-
-“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
-gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
-going out, till you've been long abed.”
-
-He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
-most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
-conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
-to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
-conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
-on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
-he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
-person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
-honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
-professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
-
-“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
-honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
-of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
-tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
-on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
-customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”
-
-Then he began grumbling again:
-
-“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
-know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
-flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
-your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
-and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”
-
-This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
-perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
-all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
-function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
-
-Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
-was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
-obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
-solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
-o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
-took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
-forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
-fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
-in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
-extinguished the light, and went out.
-
-Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
-bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
-followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
-court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
-his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
-door stood ajar all night.
-
-Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
-father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
-walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
-honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
-gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
-the two trudged on together.
-
-Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
-winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
-lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
-that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
-second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
-himself into two.
-
-The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
-under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
-brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
-wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
-the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
-Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
-Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
-defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
-He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
-third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
-there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
-and knees.
-
-It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
-holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
-in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
-and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
-that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
-tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
-creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
-fish.
-
-They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
-appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
-Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
-striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
-with his hair as stiff as his father's.
-
-But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
-only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
-were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
-the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
-screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
-strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
-earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
-it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
-wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
-made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
-
-He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
-it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
-to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
-was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
-upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
-and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
-shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
-was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
-roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
-like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
-too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
-to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
-and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
-incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
-got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
-it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
-stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
-his breast when he fell asleep.
-
-From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
-daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
-family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
-inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
-ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
-bed.
-
-“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
-
-“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.
-
-“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
-and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
-you?”
-
-“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.
-
-“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
-honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
-husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”
-
-“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”
-
-“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
-honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
-when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
-wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
-woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
-no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
-of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”
-
-The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
-the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
-at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
-his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
-down too, and fell asleep again.
-
-There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
-Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
-by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
-he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
-and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
-ostensible calling.
-
-Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
-along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
-from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
-solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
-and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
-improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
-that fine morning.
-
-“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
-at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
-Resurrection-Man?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
-should I know?”
-
-“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.
-
-“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
-hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”
-
-“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.
-
-“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
-branch of Scientific goods.”
-
-“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.
-
-“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
-growed up!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
-“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
-your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
-there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
-for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
-to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
-himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
-yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”
-
-
-
-
-XV. Knitting
-
-
-There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
-Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
-through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
-measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
-of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
-he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
-influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
-vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
-Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
-the dregs of it.
-
-This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
-early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
-on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
-brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
-slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
-not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
-were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
-have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
-and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
-looks.
-
-Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
-was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
-threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
-only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
-wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
-and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
-humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
-
-A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
-observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
-at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
-gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
-towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
-of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
-with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
-a long way off.
-
-Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
-high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
-his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
-mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
-the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
-of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
-flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
-followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
-the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
-
-“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.
-
-It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
-an answering chorus of “Good day!”
-
-“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.
-
-Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
-their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
-
-“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
-travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
-Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
-He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
-drink, my wife!”
-
-A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
-mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
-and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
-bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
-Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
-
-Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
-than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
-rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
-He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
-Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
-
-“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.
-
-“Yes, thank you.”
-
-“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
-occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”
-
-Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
-courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
-staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
-sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
-
-No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
-gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
-man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
-him through the chinks in the wall.
-
-Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
-
-“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
-encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
-Speak, Jacques Five!”
-
-The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
-it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”
-
-“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
-commencement.”
-
-“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
-running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
-chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
-going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
-hanging by the chain--like this.”
-
-Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
-he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
-the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
-during a whole year.
-
-Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
-
-“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
-
-Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
-
-“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
-finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
-'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”
-
-“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.
-
-“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
-confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
-offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
-standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
-My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”
-
-“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
-interrupted. “Go on!”
-
-“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
-is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”
-
-“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
-he is unluckily found. Go on!”
-
-“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
-go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
-village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
-coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
-with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”
-
-With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
-elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
-
-“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
-and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
-spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
-see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
-that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
-going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
-their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
-road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
-Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
-with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
-to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
-be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
-on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”
-
-He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
-vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
-
-“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
-show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
-our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
-village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
-follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
-shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
-consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”
-
-He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
-butt-ends of muskets.
-
-“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
-laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
-but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
-the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
-and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
-darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”
-
-He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
-snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
-opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”
-
-“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
-voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
-village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
-locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
-except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
-my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
-my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
-iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
-hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
-dead man.”
-
-Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
-of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
-countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
-authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
-and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
-his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
-intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
-over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
-standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
-light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
-him.
-
-“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.
-
-“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
-at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
-distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
-of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
-faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
-the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
-whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
-executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
-that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
-that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
-It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”
-
-“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
-“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
-yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
-sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
-hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
-his hand.”
-
-“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
-his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
-strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
-food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
-and struck him blows. You hear?”
-
-“I hear, messieurs.”
-
-“Go on then,” said Defarge.
-
-“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
-countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
-the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
-that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
-father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
-parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
-with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
-which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
-poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
-that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
-says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
-the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
-I am not a scholar.”
-
-“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
-and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
-all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
-nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
-the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
-attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
-when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
-done--why, how old are you?”
-
-“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
-
-“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
-it.”
-
-“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
-on.”
-
-“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
-even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
-night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
-the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
-Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
-the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
-water.”
-
-The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
-and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
-
-“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
-the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
-have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
-of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
-a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
-laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
-from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
-fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
-there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”
-
-They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
-on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
-spectacle.
-
-“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
-water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
-I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
-bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
-across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
-messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”
-
-The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
-three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
-
-“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
-and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
-warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
-walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
-you see me!”
-
-After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
-and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
-door?”
-
-“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
-top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
-
-The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
-the garret.
-
-“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”
-
-“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.
-
-“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.
-
-“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”
-
-The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
-gnawing another finger.
-
-“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
-can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
-safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
-be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”
-
-“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
-undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
-a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
-own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
-Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
-to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
-crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”
-
-There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
-hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
-very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”
-
-“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
-easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
-with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
-on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
-Court; let him see them on Sunday.”
-
-“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
-wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”
-
-“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
-to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
-him to bring it down one day.”
-
-Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
-dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
-pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
-asleep.
-
-Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
-in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
-dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
-new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
-unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
-his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
-he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
-contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
-might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
-into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
-murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
-with it until the play was played out.
-
-Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
-(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
-and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
-madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
-additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
-afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
-see the carriage of the King and Queen.
-
-“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.
-
-“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”
-
-“What do you make, madame?”
-
-“Many things.”
-
-“For instance--”
-
-“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”
-
-The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
-of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
-and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
-fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
-and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
-shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
-ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
-and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
-sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
-intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
-Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
-ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
-terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
-more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
-with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
-hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
-and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
-from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
-pieces.
-
-“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
-patron; “you are a good boy!”
-
-The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
-having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
-
-“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
-these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
-insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”
-
-“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”
-
-“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
-stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
-in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
-tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
-deceive them too much.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
-confirmation.
-
-“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
-it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”
-
-“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
-pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
-pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”
-
-“Truly yes, madame.”
-
-“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
-set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
-you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”
-
-“It is true, madame.”
-
-“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
-a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
-“now, go home!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI. Still Knitting
-
-
-Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
-bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
-darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
-the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
-the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
-the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
-for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
-scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
-stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
-terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
-the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
-village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
-when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
-faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
-up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
-look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
-stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
-was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
-everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
-scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
-crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
-skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
-started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
-who could find a living there.
-
-Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
-stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
-of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
-night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
-world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
-star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
-the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
-the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
-vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
-
-The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
-in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
-journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
-guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
-examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
-of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
-with, and affectionately embraced.
-
-When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
-and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
-picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
-streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
-
-“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
-
-“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
-commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
-can say, but he knows of one.”
-
-“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
-business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
-man?”
-
-“He is English.”
-
-“So much the better. His name?”
-
-“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
-been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
-correctness.
-
-“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”
-
-“John.”
-
-“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
-“Good. His appearance; is it known?”
-
-“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
-complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
-thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
-sinister.”
-
-“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
-registered to-morrow.”
-
-They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
-and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
-the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
-stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
-her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
-dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
-of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
-handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
-night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
-up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
-condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
-walked up and down through life.
-
-The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
-neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
-by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
-it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
-whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
-
-“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
-money. “There are only the usual odours.”
-
-“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.
-
-“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
-never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
-him. “Oh, the men, the men!”
-
-“But my dear!” began Defarge.
-
-“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
-faint of heart to-night, my dear!”
-
-“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
-breast, “it _is_ a long time.”
-
-“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
-Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”
-
-“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
-Defarge.
-
-“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
-the lightning? Tell me.”
-
-Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
-too.
-
-“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
-swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
-earthquake?”
-
-“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.
-
-“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
-before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
-seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”
-
-She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
-
-“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
-“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
-coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
-is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
-that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
-the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
-more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
-you.”
-
-“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
-a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
-attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
-it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
-it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”
-
-“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
-were another enemy strangled.
-
-“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
-“We shall not see the triumph.”
-
-“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
-strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
-my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
-certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
-would--”
-
-Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
-
-“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
-cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”
-
-“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
-and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
-When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
-time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”
-
-Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
-little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
-out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
-manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
-
-Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
-wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
-now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
-usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
-drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
-and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
-perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
-dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
-out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
-themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
-the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
-thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
-
-A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
-felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
-rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
-
-It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
-customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
-wine-shop.
-
-“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.
-
-“Good day, monsieur.”
-
-She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
-“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
-hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
-thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
-peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
-expression! Good day, one and all!”
-
-“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
-mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
-
-Madame complied with a polite air.
-
-“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
-
-It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
-Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
-however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
-visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
-of observing the place in general.
-
-“You knit with great skill, madame.”
-
-“I am accustomed to it.”
-
-“A pretty pattern too!”
-
-“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
-
-“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
-
-“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
-fingers moved nimbly.
-
-“Not for use?”
-
-“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
-madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
-coquetry, “I'll use it!”
-
-It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
-decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
-men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
-catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
-looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
-Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
-one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
-but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
-poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
-unimpeachable.
-
-“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
-and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
-'BARSAD' before you go.”
-
-“You have a husband, madame?”
-
-“I have.”
-
-“Children?”
-
-“No children.”
-
-“Business seems bad?”
-
-“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
-
-“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”
-
-“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
-extra something into his name that boded him no good.
-
-“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
-Of course.”
-
-“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
-enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
-think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
-it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
-embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”
-
-The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
-not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
-stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
-Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
-
-“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
-Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
-
-“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
-for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
-price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”
-
-“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
-that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
-susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
-is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
-fellow? Between ourselves.”
-
-“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.
-
-“Is there not?”
-
-“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.
-
-As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
-him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
-Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
-
-“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
-confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
-
-“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
-“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”
-
-“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
-day!”
-
-“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.
-
-“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
-you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
-and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”
-
-“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
-of it.”
-
-Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
-hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
-person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
-have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
-attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
-water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
-out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
-it.
-
-“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
- observed Defarge.
-
-“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
-in its miserable inhabitants.”
-
-“Hah!” muttered Defarge.
-
-“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
- pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
-associations with your name.”
-
-“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.
-
-“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
-had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
-informed of the circumstances?”
-
-“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
-to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
-warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
-
-“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
-from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
-monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
-Tellson and Company--over to England.”
-
-“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.
-
-“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
-Manette and his daughter, in England.”
-
-“Yes?” said Defarge.
-
-“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.
-
-“No,” said Defarge.
-
-“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
-song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
-arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
-they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
-no correspondence.”
-
-“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”
-
-“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
-ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”
-
-“Oh! You know I am English.”
-
-“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
-suppose the man is.”
-
-He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
-of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
-end, he added:
-
-“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
-one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
-poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
-going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
-was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
-Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
-Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”
-
-Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
-effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
-as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
-troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
-spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
-
-Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
-worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
-paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
-in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
-pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
-after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
-husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
-come back.
-
-“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
-as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
-said of Ma'amselle Manette?”
-
-“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
-is probably false. But it may be true.”
-
-“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.
-
-“If it is?” repeated his wife.
-
-“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
-sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”
-
-“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
-“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
-to end him. That is all I know.”
-
-“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
-Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
-“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
-husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
-the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”
-
-“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
-madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
-for their merits; that is enough.”
-
-She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
-took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
-Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
-decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
-disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
-shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
-
-In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
-himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
-to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
-Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
-to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
-her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
-knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
-mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
-jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
-the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
-
-But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
-Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
-among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
-behind.
-
-Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
-great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
-grand woman!”
-
-Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
-the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
-the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
-darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
-pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
-thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
-wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
-Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
-knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
-a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
-counting dropping heads.
-
-
-
-
-XVII. One Night
-
-
-Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
-Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
-under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
-radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
-seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
-
-Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
-for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
-
-“You are happy, my dear father?”
-
-“Quite, my child.”
-
-They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
-was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
-in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
-both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
-time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
-
-“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
-love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
-for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
-if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
-the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
-self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”
-
-Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
-
-In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
-upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
-the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
-its going.
-
-“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
-quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
-ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
-own heart, do you feel quite certain?”
-
-Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
-scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
-added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
-seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
-was--without it.”
-
-“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”
-
-“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
-it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
-fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
-wasted--”
-
-She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
-the word.
-
-“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
-natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
-comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
-how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”
-
-“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
-with you.”
-
-He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
-without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
-
-“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
-Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
-should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
-cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”
-
-It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
-refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
-sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
-afterwards.
-
-“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
-“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
-light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
-of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
-my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
-that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
-could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
-with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
-manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
-and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”
-
-The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
-deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
-the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
-cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
-
-“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
-child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
-been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
-was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
-imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
-was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
-to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
-will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
-
-She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
-
-“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
-me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
-cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
-to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
-the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
-blank.”
-
-“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
-never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
-
-“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
-brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
-the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”
-
-“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”
-
-“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
-have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
-like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
-foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
-leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
-image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
-her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
-But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”
-
-“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”
-
-“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
-sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
-and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
-that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
-have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
-I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
-perplexed distinctions.”
-
-His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
-cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
-
-“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
-coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
-life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
-was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
-cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”
-
-“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
-that was I.”
-
-“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
-they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
-a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
-up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
-imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
-But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
-blessed her.”
-
-“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
-me as fervently to-morrow?”
-
-“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
-for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
-happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
-happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”
-
-He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
-Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
-house.
-
-There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
-be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
-change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
-by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
-apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
-
-Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
-three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
-was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
-little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
-
-So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
-But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
-downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
-beforehand.
-
-All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
-asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
-hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
-shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
-then, leaned over him, and looked at him.
-
-Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
-covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
-mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
-resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
-beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
-
-She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
-she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
-sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
-more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
-of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
-in praying for him.
-
-
-
-
-XVIII. Nine Days
-
-
-The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
-closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
-Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
-Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
-reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
-but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
-have been the bridegroom.
-
-“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
-and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
-pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
-you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
-what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
-on my friend Mr. Charles!”
-
-“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
-therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”
-
-“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”
-
-“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
-on occasion.)
-
-“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
-a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
-anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
-Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
-I couldn't see it.”
-
-“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
-had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
-invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
-speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
-might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”
-
-“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.
-
-“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
-gentleman of that name.
-
-“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
-
-“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
-seems probable, too.”
-
-“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
-were put in your cradle.”
-
-“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
-with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
-pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
-her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
-I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
-opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
-your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
-own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
-fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
-shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
-the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
-your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
-him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
-Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
-old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
-own.”
-
-For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
-well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
-golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
-delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
-
-The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
-Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
-went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
-But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
-shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
-old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
-wind.
-
-He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
-which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
-another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
-eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
-
-Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
-group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
-glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
-dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
-breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
-mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
-mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
-door at parting.
-
-It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
-cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
-enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”
-
-And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
-gone.
-
-The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
-preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
-and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
-the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
-change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
-there, had struck him a poisoned blow.
-
-He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
-expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
-the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
-manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
-room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
-wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
-
-“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
-think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
-I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
-presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
-there, and all will be well.”
-
-It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
-Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
-old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
-into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
-
-“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”
-
-Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
-lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
-He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”
-
-Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
-Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
-when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
-down, and he was very busy.
-
-“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”
-
-The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
-were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.
-
-He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
-throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
-haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
-hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.
-
-Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
-shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
-him, and asked what it was.
-
-“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
-ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”
-
-“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”
-
-He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
-his work.
-
-“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
-occupation. Think, dear friend!”
-
-Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
-a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
-a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
-words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
-the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
-he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
-seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
-trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.
-
-Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
-all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
-the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
-conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
-precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
-few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
-on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
-called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
-two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
-addressed to her by the same post.
-
-These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
-the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
-another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
-thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
-
-In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
-being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
-attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
-therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
-first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
-room.
-
-He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
-to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
-attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
-before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
-fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
-window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
-natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
-
-Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
-that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
-after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
-When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
-and said to him:
-
-“Will you go out?”
-
-He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
-looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
-
-“Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
-Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
-with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
-some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
-business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
-
-Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
-at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
-time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
-fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
-bench and to work.
-
-On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
-and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
-returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
-that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
-to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
-at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
-present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
-amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
-enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
-friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
-appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
-him.
-
-When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
-
-“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”
-
-As before, he repeated, “Out?”
-
-“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”
-
-This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
-from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
-meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
-sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
-slipped away to his bench.
-
-The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
-heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
-The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
-seven days, eight days, nine days.
-
-With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
-heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
-well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
-observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
-was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
-his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
-the dusk of the ninth evening.
-
-
-
-
-XIX. An Opinion
-
-
-Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
-tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
-into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
-night.
-
-He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
-done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
-Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
-and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
-at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
-Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
-studious and attentive.
-
-Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
-giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
-not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
-friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
-as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
-which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
-
-It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
-answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
-corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
-How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
-Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
-Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?
-
-Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
-had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
-resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
-He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
-breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
-had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
-Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
-the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
-
-Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
-out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
-toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
-white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
-usual way, and came to breakfast.
-
-So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
-delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
-advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
-place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
-the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
-counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
-he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
-he sought. And that aid was his own.
-
-Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
-Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
-
-“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
-very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
-very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
-so.”
-
-Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
-Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
-at his hands more than once.
-
-“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
-arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
-give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
-for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”
-
-“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
-shock--?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”
-
-Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
-
-“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
-of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
-the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
-shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
-long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
-are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
-which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
-himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
-the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
-be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
-great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
-stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
-there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”
-
-The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”
-
-“Nine days and nights.”
-
-“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
-resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”
-
-“That is the fact.”
-
-“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
-collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
-originally?”
-
-“Once.”
-
-“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
-respects--as he was then?”
-
-“I think in all respects.”
-
-“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”
-
-“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
-It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”
-
-The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
-very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
-the two spoke for a little while.
-
-“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
-considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
-and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
-possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
-intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
-I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
-relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
-be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
-about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
-more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
-if I knew how.
-
-“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
-knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
-able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
-Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
-and teach me how to be a little more useful.”
-
-Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
-Mr. Lorry did not press him.
-
-“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
-“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
-unforeseen by its subject.”
-
-“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
-
-“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
-
-“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
-mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
-himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”
-
-“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
-upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
-him?”
-
-“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
-believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”
-
-“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
-after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
-attack?”
-
-“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
-extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
-was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
-distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
-there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
-would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
-particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
-effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”
-
-“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
-with natural hesitation.
-
-The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
-answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
-
-“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
-
-“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
-great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
-should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
-something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
-and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
-the worst was over.”
-
-“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
-
-“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
-be instructed. I may go on?”
-
-“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
-hand.
-
-“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
-he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
-knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
-he do too much?”
-
-“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
-singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
-part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
-things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
-direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”
-
-“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
-
-“I think I am quite sure of it.”
-
-“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”
-
-“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
-violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
-
-“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
-that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
-disorder?”
-
-“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
-firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
-association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
-extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
-happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
-such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
-believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”
-
-He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
-would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
-confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
-endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
-confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
-really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
-be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
-conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
-last nine days, he knew that he must face it.
-
-“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
-so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
-will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
-case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
-time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
-found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
-him?”
-
-The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
-nervously on the ground.
-
-“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
-his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”
-
-Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
-ground.
-
-“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
-understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
-shook his head, and stopped.
-
-“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
-“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
-of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
-occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
-his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
-the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
-practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
-torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
-quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
-himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
-of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
-find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
-fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
-
-He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
-face.
-
-“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
-who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
-bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
-the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
-with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
-forge?”
-
-There was another silence.
-
-“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
-companion.”
-
-“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
-in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
-sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
-Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
-sake, my dear Manette!”
-
-Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
-
-“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
-it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
-let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
-passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
-three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
-day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
-had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
-explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
-she had no suspicions.
-
-On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
-his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
-carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
-guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
-Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
-which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
-burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
-purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
-shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
-and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
-while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
-traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
-crime.
-
-
-
-
-XX. A Plea
-
-
-When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
-offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
-many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
-in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
-about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
-
-He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
-speaking to him when no one overheard.
-
-“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
-
-“We are already friends, I hope.”
-
-“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
-mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
-friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
-
-Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
-good-fellowship, what he did mean?
-
-“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
-in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
-remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
-usual?”
-
-“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
-you had been drinking.”
-
-“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
-always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
-when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
-preach.”
-
-“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
-to me.”
-
-“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
-away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
-you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
-wish you would forget it.”
-
-“I forgot it long ago.”
-
-“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
-me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
-and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
-
-“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
-for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
-surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
-faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
-Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
-remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”
-
-“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
-you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
-don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
-say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”
-
-“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
-quarrel with _your_ light answer.”
-
-“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
-I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
-incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
-ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”
-
-“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
-
-“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
-any good, and never will.”
-
-“I don't know that you 'never will.'”
-
-“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
-to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
-reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
-permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
-be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
-resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
-furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
-doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
-should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
-dare say, to know that I had it.”
-
-“Will you try?”
-
-“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
-indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”
-
-“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
-
-They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
-afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
-
-When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
-Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
-this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
-problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
-bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
-him as he showed himself.
-
-He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
-wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
-her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
-marked.
-
-“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
-
-“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
-and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
-to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”
-
-“What is it, my Lucie?”
-
-“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
-ask it?”
-
-“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
-
-What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
-cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
-
-“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
-respect than you expressed for him to-night.”
-
-“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
-
-“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”
-
-“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”
-
-“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
-lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
-he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
-wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”
-
-“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
-astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
-of him.”
-
-“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
-scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
-now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
-even magnanimous things.”
-
-She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
-that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
-
-“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
-head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
-we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”
-
-The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
-Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”
-
-He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
-her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
-could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
-of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
-that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
-have parted from his lips for the first time--
-
-“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI. Echoing Footsteps
-
-
-A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
-the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
-her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
-companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
-the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
-years.
-
-At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
-when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
-dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
-afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
-Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
-doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
-her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
-footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
-be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
-eyes, and broke like waves.
-
-That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
-advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
-her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
-mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
-the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
-children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
-her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
-joy to her.
-
-Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
-weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
-their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
-echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
-step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
-Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
-unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
-plane-tree in the garden!
-
-Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
-harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
-pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
-smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
-leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
-tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
-departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
-forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
-
-Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
-echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
-of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
-mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
-murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
-the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
-dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
-the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
-
-The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
-half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
-uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
-done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
-regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
-all true echoes for ages and ages.
-
-No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
-blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
-but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
-delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
-such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
-was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
-and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
-him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”
-
-Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
-forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
-his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
-in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
-life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
-stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
-it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
-state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
-rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
-property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
-but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
-
-These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
-offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
-sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
-Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
-bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
-rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
-Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
-training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
-pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
-declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
-Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
-diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
-to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
-parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
-latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
-it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
-originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
-off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
-
-These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
-amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
-daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
-child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
-and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
-Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
-with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
-waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
-in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
-more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
-many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
-to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
-the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
-as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
-have too much to do?”
-
-But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
-in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
-little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
-as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
-
-On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
-Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
-her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
-all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
-lightning from the same place.
-
-“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
-I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
-business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
-to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
-run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
-to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
-among some of them for sending it to England.”
-
-“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--
-
-“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
-there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
-getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
-without due occasion.”
-
-“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”
-
-“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
-himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
-am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
-Manette?”
-
-“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
-
-“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
-which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
-reason. You are not going out, I hope?”
-
-“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
-Doctor.
-
-“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
-pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
-see.”
-
-“Of course, it has been kept for you.”
-
-“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”
-
-“And sleeping soundly.”
-
-“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
-otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
-all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
-come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
-the echoes about which you have your theory.”
-
-“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”
-
-“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
-are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”
-
-Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
-life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
-footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
-the dark London window.
-
-Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
-heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
-heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
-roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
-struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
-all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
-weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
-
-Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
-agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
-heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
-have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
-powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
-weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
-could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
-force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
-heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
-Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
-with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
-
-As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
-circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
-had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
-already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
-thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
-another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
-
-“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
-One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
-patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”
-
-“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
-knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
-in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
-and a cruel knife.
-
-“Where do you go, my wife?”
-
-“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
-of women, by-and-bye.”
-
-“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
-friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”
-
-With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
-into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
-depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
-beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
-began.
-
-Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
-towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
-the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
-a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
-wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
-
-Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
-cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
-all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
-Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
-the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
-wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
-
-“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
-the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
-cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
-revenge.
-
-Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
-drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
-displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
-weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
-at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
-execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
-furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
-single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
-towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
-by the service of Four fierce hours.
-
-A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
-perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
-the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
-wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
-walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
-
-So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
-draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
-struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
-outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
-made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
-Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
-inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
-exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
-furious dumb-show.
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-“The Records!”
-
-“The secret cells!”
-
-“The instruments of torture!”
-
-“The Prisoners!”
-
-Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
-the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
-eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
-billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
-threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
-undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
-these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
-hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
-wall.
-
-“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
-there is no one there.”
-
-“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
-Defarge. “Quick!”
-
-“The meaning, monsieur?”
-
-“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
-shall strike you dead?”
-
-“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
-
-“Monsieur, it is a cell.”
-
-“Show it me!”
-
-“Pass this way, then.”
-
-Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
-by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
-held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
-been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
-as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
-noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
-its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
-outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
-occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
-air like spray.
-
-Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
-hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
-and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
-waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
-linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
-there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
-but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
-tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
-and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
-to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
-come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
-
-The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
-the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
-in:
-
-“One hundred and five, North Tower!”
-
-There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
-with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
-stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
-across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
-on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
-the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
-
-“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
-Defarge to the turnkey.
-
-The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
-
-“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”
-
-“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
-
-“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
-with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
-wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
-a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
-me!”
-
-He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
-exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
-table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
-
-“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
-among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
- throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
-light higher, you!”
-
-With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
-peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
-and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
-and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
-in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
-into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
-cautious touch.
-
-“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”
-
-“Nothing.”
-
-“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
-them, you!”
-
-The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
-again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
-retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
-of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
-more.
-
-They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
-Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
-upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
-Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
-judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
-blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
-unavenged.
-
-In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
-encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
-decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
-woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
-“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
-remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
-the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
-close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
-be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
-long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
-when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
-upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.
-
-The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
-of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
-Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
-iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
-governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
-where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
-the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
-means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
-swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
-
-The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
-of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
-were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
-voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
-until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
-
-But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
-in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
-fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
-more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
-released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
-overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
-Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
-Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
-drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
-faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
-faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
-lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
-IT!”
-
-Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
-accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
-and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
-hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
-Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
-hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
-and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
-and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
-at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
-stained red.
-
-
-
-
-XXII. The Sea Still Rises
-
-
-Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
-his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
-the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
-Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
-Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
-Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
-themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
-portentously elastic swing with them.
-
-Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
-contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
-knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
-of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
-the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
-hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
-but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
-destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
-before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
-The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
-they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
-the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
-last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.
-
-Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
-to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
-sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
-grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
-already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
-
-“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”
-
-As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
-Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
-murmur came rushing along.
-
-“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”
-
-Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
-around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
- Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
-mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
-sprung to their feet.
-
-“Say then, my husband. What is it?”
-
-“News from the other world!”
-
-“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”
-
-“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
-that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”
-
-“Everybody!” from all throats.
-
-“The news is of him. He is among us!”
-
-“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”
-
-“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
-to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
-found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
-seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
-said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”
-
-Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
-never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
-could have heard the answering cry.
-
-A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
-steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
-was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
-
-“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”
-
-Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
-in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
-The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
-her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
-house, rousing the women.
-
-The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
-from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
-the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
-such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
-children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
-famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
-another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
-Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
-Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
-these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
-alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
-who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
-to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
-breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
-suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
-knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
-and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
-Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
-Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
-him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
-whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
-dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
-belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
-
-Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
-the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
-his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
-of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
-such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
-a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
-wailing children.
-
-No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
-this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
-open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
-and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
-from him in the Hall.
-
-“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
-with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
-Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
-under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
-
-The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
-her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
-others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
-clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
-and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
-expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
-a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
-wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
-to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
-telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
-
-At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
-protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
-too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
-stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
-him!
-
-It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
-had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
-wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
-her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
-had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
-perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
-out! Bring him to the lamp!”
-
-Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
-his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
-and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
-face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
-entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
-action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
-another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
-a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
-of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
-might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
-while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
-screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
-him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
-broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
-held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
-mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
-
-Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
-and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
-the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
-people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
-five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
-on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
-breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
-pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
-through the streets.
-
-Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
-wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
-long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
-they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
-embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
-again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
-frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
-slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
-common, afterwards supping at their doors.
-
-Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
-most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
-some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
-cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
-share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
-and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
-hoped.
-
-It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
-knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
-husky tones, while fastening the door:
-
-“At last it is come, my dear!”
-
-“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
-
-Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
-her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
-only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
-Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
-the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
-was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
-Antoine's bosom.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII. Fire Rises
-
-
-There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
-the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
-highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
-poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
-crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
-but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
-them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
-be what he was ordered.
-
-Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
-Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
-shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
-dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
-animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
-out.
-
-Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
-blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
-luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
-nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
-things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
-Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
-be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
-was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
-flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
-its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
-to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
-unaccountable.
-
-But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
-it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
-it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
-of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
-the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
-of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
-the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
-disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
-beautifying features of Monseigneur.
-
-For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
-dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
-to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
-thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
-he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
-and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
-foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
-a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
-without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
-aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
-mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
-highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
-with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
-
-Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
-as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
-could get from a shower of hail.
-
-The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
-and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
-in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
-intelligible:
-
-“How goes it, Jacques?”
-
-“All well, Jacques.”
-
-“Touch then!”
-
-They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
-
-“No dinner?”
-
-“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
-
-“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”
-
-He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
-steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
-it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
-thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
-
-“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
-time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
-
-“To-night?” said the mender of roads.
-
-“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
-
-“Where?”
-
-“Here.”
-
-He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
-one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
-of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
-
-“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
-
-“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
-here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”
-
-“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
-over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
-Well?”
-
-“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
-village.”
-
-“Good. When do you cease to work?”
-
-“At sunset.”
-
-“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
-resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
-wake me?”
-
-“Surely.”
-
-The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
-great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
-was fast asleep directly.
-
-As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
-away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
-by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
-now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
-heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
-his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
-The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
-red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
-beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
-and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
-of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
-footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
-with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
-leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
-sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
-secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
-with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
-Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
-drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
-this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
-looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
-obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
-
-The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
-brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
-of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
-them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
-the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
-to go down into the village, roused him.
-
-“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
-summit of the hill?”
-
-“About.”
-
-“About. Good!”
-
-The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
-according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
-squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
-appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
-When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
-as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
-curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
-together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
-looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
-chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
-alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
-chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
-the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
-to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
-
-The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
-solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
-the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
-flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
-swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
-the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
-stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
-had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
-heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
-branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
-lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
-was black again.
-
-But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
-visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
-Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
-picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
-and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
-Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
-stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
-
-A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
-there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
-spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
-space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
-Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
-impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
-mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
-with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
-sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.
-
-The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
-through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
-the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
-removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
-chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
-timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
-looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
-of lips, “It must burn.”
-
-As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
-village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
-fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
-lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
-every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
-occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
-Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
-that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
-authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
-and that post-horses would roast.
-
-The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
-raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
-infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
-and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
-torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
-two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
-again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
-and contending with the fire.
-
-The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
-scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
-figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
-lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
-dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
-heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
-splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
-birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
-trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
-roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
-destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
-abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.
-
-Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
-bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
-the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
-of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
-days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
-house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
-Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
-with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
-withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
-resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
-of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
-parapet, and crush a man or two below.
-
-Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
-distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
-combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
-ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
-which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
-A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
-the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
-Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
-rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
-and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
-while.
-
-Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
-other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
-the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
-had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
-less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
-functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
-in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
-North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
-The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
-no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
-successfully.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
-
-
-In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
-the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
-flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
-the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
-of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
-tissue of the life of her home.
-
-Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
-the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
-feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
-a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
-danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
-in.
-
-Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
-his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
-to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
-this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
-infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
-ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
-boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
-and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
-sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
-
-The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
-mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
-eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
-Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
-out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
-outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
-all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
-“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
-
-The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
-come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
-
-As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
-Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
-haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
-without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
-Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
-to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
-house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
-from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
-storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
-provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
-by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
-from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
-a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
-time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
-was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
-consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
-out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
-through Temple Bar to read.
-
-On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
-Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
-penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
-the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
-hour or so of the time of closing.
-
-“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
-Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”
-
-“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
-disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
-
-“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
-some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
-enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
-upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
-interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
-disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
-House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
-old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
-long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
-myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
-these years, who ought to be?”
-
-“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
-and like one thinking aloud.
-
-“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
-Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
-are a wise counsellor.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
-thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
-my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
-the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
-here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
-and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
-after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
-
-“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
-are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
-France at this time of day!”
-
-“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
-more to the purpose that you say you are.”
-
-“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
-glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
-conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
-of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
-Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
-of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
-might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
-afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
-with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
-getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
-precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
-I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
-bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
-the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
-
-“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
-
-“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
-the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
-Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
-impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
-to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
-whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
-every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
-the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
-as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
-
-“And do you really go to-night?”
-
-“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
-delay.”
-
-“And do you take no one with you?”
-
-“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
-to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
-bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
-Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
-of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
-master.”
-
-“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
-youthfulness.”
-
-“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
-commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
-live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
-
-This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
-Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
-would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
-much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
-was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
-terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
-the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
-omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
-millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
-should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
-years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
-vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
-restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
-and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
-without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
-such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
-in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
-already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
-
-Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
-way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
-to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
-them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
-accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
-of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
-with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
-going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
-word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
-
-The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
-before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
-whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
-that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
-name. The address, turned into English, ran:
-
-“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
-France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
-London, England.”
-
-On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
-express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
-be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
-between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
-suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
-
-“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
-I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
-gentleman is to be found.”
-
-The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
-was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
-held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
-person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
-it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
-and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
-English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
-
-“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
-polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
-knew him.”
-
-“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
-been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
-hay--“some years ago.”
-
-“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
-through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
-Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
-the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
-
-“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
-fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
-
-Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
-the shoulder, and said:
-
-“I know the fellow.”
-
-“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
-times.”
-
-“But I do ask why?”
-
-“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
-hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
-who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
-ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
-that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
-man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
-because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
-why.”
-
-Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
-said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”
-
-“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
-Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
-understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
-tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
-to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
-gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
-“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
-find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
-precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
-of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
-
-With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
-shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
-his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
-in the general departure from the Bank.
-
-“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
-deliver it?”
-
-“I do.”
-
-“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
-addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
-that it has been here some time?”
-
-“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
-
-“From here, at eight.”
-
-“I will come back, to see you off.”
-
-Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
-Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
-letter, and read it. These were its contents:
-
-
-“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
-
-“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
-
-“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
-village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
-brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
-great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
-ground.
-
-“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
-life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
-the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
-emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
-against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
-before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
-imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
-had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
-an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
-
-“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
-emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
-not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
-I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
-ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
-
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
-succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
-Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
-
-“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
-nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
-assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
-
-“Your afflicted,
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-
-The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
-by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
-only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
-reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
-considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
-
-He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
-the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
-resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
-conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
-he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
-his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
-mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
-systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
-do it, and that it had never been done.
-
-The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
-always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
-which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
-annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
-following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
-these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
-without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
-the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
-until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
-France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
-confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
-was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
-France that might impeach him for it.
-
-But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
-far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
-relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
-favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
-bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
-on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
-there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
-in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
-the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
-own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
-
-This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
-that he would go to Paris.
-
-Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
-him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
-to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
-him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
-attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
-worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
-could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
-trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
-and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
-him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
-brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
-(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
-which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
-coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
-letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
-justice, honour, and good name.
-
-His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
-
-Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
-struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
-with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
-it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
-gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
-it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
-sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
-saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
-Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
-
-As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
-neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
-Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
-reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
-should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
-the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
-situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
-to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
-discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
-in his course.
-
-He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
-return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
-in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
-nothing of his intention now.
-
-A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
-booted and equipped.
-
-“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
-would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
-perhaps you will take a verbal one?”
-
-“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”
-
-“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
-
-“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
-hand.
-
-“Gabelle.”
-
-“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
-
-“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
-
-“Any time mentioned?”
-
-“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
-
-“Any person mentioned?”
-
-“No.”
-
-He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
-and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
-misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
-Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
- Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
-rolled away.
-
-That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
-two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
-he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
-that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
-personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
-their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
-strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
-in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
-
-It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
-reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
-preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
-But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
-resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
-so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
-the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
-scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
-(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
-of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
-streets, with a heavier heart.
-
-The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
-and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
-two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
-midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
-“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
-your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
-his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
-floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
-
-
-The end of the second book.
-
-
-
-
-
-Book the Third--the Track of a Storm
-
-
-
-
-I. In Secret
-
-
-The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
-England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
-ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
-horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
-unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
-but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
-these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
-citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
-of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
-inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
-turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
-hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
-Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
-Death.
-
-A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
-Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
-was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
-at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
-Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
-the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
-the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
-watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
-or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
-felt his freedom more completely gone.
-
-This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
-times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
-riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
-by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
-days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
-a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
-
-Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
-prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
-guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
-to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
-a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
-had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
-
-Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
-red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
-
-“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
-under an escort.”
-
-“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
-dispense with the escort.”
-
-“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
-of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”
-
-“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
-are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”
-
-“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.
-
-“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
-not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”
-
-“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
-and dress yourself, emigrant.”
-
-Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
-patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
-a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
-started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.
-
-The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
-cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
-side of him.
-
-The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
-his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
-wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
-faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
-and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
-change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
-between them and the capital.
-
-They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
-lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
-that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
-shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
-being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
-as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
-his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
-that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
-he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
-of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
-confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
-
-But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
-when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
-himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
-gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
-out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”
-
-He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
-resuming it as his safest place, said:
-
-“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
-will?”
-
-“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
-furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
-aristocrat!”
-
-The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
-bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
-be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”
-
-“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
-as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.
-
-Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
-yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
-the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
-voice heard:
-
-“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
-traitor.”
-
-“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
-is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”
-
-At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
-another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
-horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
-and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
-struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
-more was done.
-
-“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
-postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
-
-“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”
-
-“When passed?”
-
-“On the fourteenth.”
-
-“The day I left England!”
-
-“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
-others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
-condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
-your life was not your own.”
-
-“But there are no such decrees yet?”
-
-“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
-may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”
-
-They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
-then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
-wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
-unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
-lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
-cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
-would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
-circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
-up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
-Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
-into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
-wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
-that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
-the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
-way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
-
-Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
-closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
-
-“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
-in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
-
-Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
-speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
-in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
-imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.
-
-“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
-whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
-
-The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
-eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
-disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
-
-He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
-into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
-gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
-Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
-patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
-into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
-traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
-people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
-to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
-forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
-filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
-their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
-ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
-about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
-and women.
-
-When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
-things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
-who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
-escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
-to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
-turned and rode away without entering the city.
-
-He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
-and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
-drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
-waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
-light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
-the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
-uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
-officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
-
-“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
-paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
-
-“This is the man.”
-
-“Your age, Evremonde?”
-
-“Thirty-seven.”
-
-“Married, Evremonde?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Where married?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”
-
-“In England.”
-
-“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
-Force.”
-
-“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
-
-The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
-
-“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
-said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
-
-“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
-to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
-demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
-my right?”
-
-“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
-wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
-sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”
-
-Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
-him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
-them.
-
-“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
-guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
-Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
-
-“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
-Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”
-
-“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”
-
-The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
-with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
-and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”
-
-“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
-truth?”
-
-“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
-looking straight before him.
-
-“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
-sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
-little help?”
-
-“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
-
-“Will you answer me a single question?”
-
-“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”
-
-“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
-communication with the world outside?”
-
-“You will see.”
-
-“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
-presenting my case?”
-
-“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
-in worse prisons, before now.”
-
-“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”
-
-Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
-and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
-there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
-He, therefore, made haste to say:
-
-“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
-than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
-Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
-the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
-prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”
-
-“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
-my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
-I will do nothing for you.”
-
-Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
-was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
-how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
-streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
-their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
-otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
-more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
-going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
-passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
-audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
-family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
-it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
-foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
-Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
-watchfulness had completely isolated him.
-
-That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
-developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
-perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
-yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
-might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
-of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
-the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
-was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
-hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
-rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
-garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
-been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
-called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
-of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
-probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
-they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
-
-Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
-from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
-certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
-his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
-arrived at the prison of La Force.
-
-A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
-presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”
-
-“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
-bloated face.
-
-Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
-with his two fellow-patriots.
-
-“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
-“How many more!”
-
-The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
-replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
-responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
-the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
-conclusion.
-
-The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
-horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
-flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
-are ill cared for!
-
-“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
-if I was not already full to bursting!”
-
-He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
-awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
-fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
-either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
-subordinates.
-
-“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
-emigrant.”
-
-Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
-corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
-until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
-prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
-and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
-most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
-room.
-
-In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
-disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
-unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
-receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
-all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
-
-So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
-gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
-misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
-in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
-of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
-frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
-waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
-that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
-
-It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
-gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
-in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
-coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
-there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
-mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
-likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
-utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
-of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
-
-“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
-gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
-honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
-on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
-happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
-to ask your name and condition?”
-
-Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
-words as suitable as he could find.
-
-“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
-eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”
-
-“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
-so.”
-
-“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
-members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
-but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
-the society--in secret.”
-
-There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
-to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
-which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
-him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
-render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
-the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
-
-The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
-ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
-them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
-solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
-
-“Yours,” said the gaoler.
-
-“Why am I confined alone?”
-
-“How do I know!”
-
-“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”
-
-“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
-present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”
-
-There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
-the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
-walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
-the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
-was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
-a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
-gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
-dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
-with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
-is the first condition of the body after death.”
-
-“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
-paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
-counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
-drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
-shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
-paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
-“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
-them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
-embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
-hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
-through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
-made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
-a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
-his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
-and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
-still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
-knew, in the swell that rose above them.
-
-
-
-
-II. The Grindstone
-
-
-Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
-in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
-the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
-a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
-troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
-mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
-metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
-of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
-besides the cook in question.
-
-Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
-sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
-willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
-indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
-house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
-things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
-precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
-of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
-Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
-drinking brandy in its state apartments.
-
-A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
-would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
-For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
-said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
-over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
-Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
-linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
-night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
-Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
-the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
-also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
-provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
-exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
-taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
-
-What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
-lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
-Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
-and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
-Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
-the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
-Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
-a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
-prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
-deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
-room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.
-
-He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
-he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
-derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
-building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
-that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
-his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
-was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
-of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
-great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
-open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
-to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
-or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
-objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
-opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
-he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.
-
-From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
-the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
-in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
-nature were going up to Heaven.
-
-“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
-dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
-who are in danger!”
-
-Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
-“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
-irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
-clash again, and all was quiet.
-
-The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
-uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
-awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
-go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
-opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
-amazement.
-
-Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
-that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
-seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
-force and power to it in this one passage of her life.
-
-“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
-matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
-What is it?”
-
-With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
-out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”
-
-“Your husband, Lucie?”
-
-“Charles.”
-
-“What of Charles?”
-
-“Here.
-
-“Here, in Paris?”
-
-“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
-collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
-us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”
-
-The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
-bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
-came pouring into the courtyard.
-
-“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
-don't touch the blind!”
-
-The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
-said, with a cool, bold smile:
-
-“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
-a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
-France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
-touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
-My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
-barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
-knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
-told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.
-
-“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
-dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
-terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
-having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
-this fatal place. What prison is he in?”
-
-“La Force!”
-
-“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
-your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
-do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
-I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
-you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
-to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
-instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
-room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
-two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
-delay.”
-
-“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
-nothing else than this. I know you are true.”
-
-The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
-key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
-partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
-looked out with him into the courtyard.
-
-Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
-enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
-people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
-had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
-there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
-
-But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
-
-The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
-men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
-the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
-the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
-False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
-hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
-howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
-sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
-forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
-held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
-blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
-struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
-fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
-the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
-sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
-over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
-upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
-and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
-and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
-sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
-the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
-of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
-as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
-of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
-their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
-given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
-
-All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
-any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
-were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
-explanation in his friend's ashy face.
-
-“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
-the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
-say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
-have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
-may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”
-
-Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
-and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
-
-His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
-confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
-carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
-For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
-the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
-surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
-linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
-cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
-kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
-the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.
-
-He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
-and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
-assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
-her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
-surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
-watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
-
-Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
-clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
-bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
-charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
-the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
-
-Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
-irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
-“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
-sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
-and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”
-
-Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
-Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
-from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
-besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
-to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
-the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
-Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
-the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
-climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
-dainty cushions.
-
-The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
-and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
-alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
-never given, and would never take away.
-
-
-
-
-III. The Shadow
-
-
-One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
-Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
-imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
-the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
-for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
-he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
-man of business.
-
-At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
-the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
-the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
-same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
-most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
-its dangerous workings.
-
-Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
-tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
-that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
-Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
-this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
-he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
-went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
-in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
-of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
-
-To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
-giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
-He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
-considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
-A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
-and heavily the day lagged on with him.
-
-It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
-was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
-do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
-man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
-addressed him by his name.
-
-“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”
-
-He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
-to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
-emphasis, the words:
-
-“Do you know me?”
-
-“I have seen you somewhere.”
-
-“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”
-
-Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
-Manette?”
-
-“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”
-
-“And what says he? What does he send me?”
-
-Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
-words in the Doctor's writing:
-
- “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
- I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
- from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.”
-
-It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
-
-“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
-this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”
-
-“Yes,” returned Defarge.
-
-Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
-way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
-courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
-
-“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
-the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
-
-“It is she,” observed her husband.
-
-“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
-they moved.
-
-“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
-It is for their safety.”
-
-Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
-at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
-The Vengeance.
-
-They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
-ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
-and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
-tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
-delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
-the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
-
- “DEAREST,--Take courage. I am well, and your father has
- influence around me. You cannot answer this.
- Kiss our child for me.”
-
-That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
-it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
-hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
-action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
-to its knitting again.
-
-There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
-the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
-neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
-eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
-
-“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
-risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
-trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
-to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
-may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
-reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
-upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”
-
-Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
-gruff sound of acquiescence.
-
-“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
-propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
-good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
-French.”
-
-The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
-match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
-appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
-whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
-_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
-Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
-
-“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
-first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
-were the finger of Fate.
-
-“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
-daughter, and only child.”
-
-The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
-threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
-kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
-shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
-threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.
-
-“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
-may go.”
-
-But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
-presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
-she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:
-
-“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
-help me to see him if you can?”
-
-“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
-down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
-who is my business here.”
-
-“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
-will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
-afraid of you than of these others.”
-
-Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
-Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
-collected his face into a sterner expression.
-
-“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
-Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
-influence?”
-
-“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
-breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
-much influence around him.”
-
-“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”
-
-“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
-have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
-my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
-of me. As a wife and mother!”
-
-Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
-turning to her friend The Vengeance:
-
-“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
-as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
-known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
-often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
-themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
-sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”
-
-“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.
-
-“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
-again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
-and mother would be much to us now?”
-
-She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
-went last, and closed the door.
-
-“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
-courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
-late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”
-
-“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
-shadow on me and on all my hopes.”
-
-“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
-little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”
-
-But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
-for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
-
-
-
-
-IV. Calm in Storm
-
-
-Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
-absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
-kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
-not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
-know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
-ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
-darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
-tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
-the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
-some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
-which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
-scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
-found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
-brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
-to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
-to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
-had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
-years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
-body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
-man was Defarge.
-
-That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
-that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
-to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
-dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
-and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
-a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
-to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
-examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
-the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
-to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
-the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
-the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
-inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
-was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
-Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
-assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
-delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
-often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
-had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
-
-The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
-intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
-saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
-those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
-been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
-thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
-the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
-in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
-of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
-awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
-with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
-carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
-anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
-with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
-
-As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
-his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
-such dread experiences would revive the old danger.
-
-But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
-at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
-felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
-he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
-could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
-“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
-As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
-helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
-of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
-the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
-of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
-clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
-had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
-
-Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
-have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
-in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
-of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
-personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
-of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
-that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
-general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
-messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
-sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
-not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
-plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
-known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.
-
-This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
-sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
-Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
-but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
-time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
-and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
-Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
-that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
-ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
-that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
-trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
-and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
-affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
-rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
-curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
-natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
-couldn't be in better hands.”
-
-But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
-Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
-the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
-era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
-against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
-great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
-against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
-of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
-had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
-alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
-the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
-and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
-fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
-What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
-One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
-and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!
-
-There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
-measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
-time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
-count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
-of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
-unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
-head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
-head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
-widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
-
-And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
-all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
-revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
-revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
-which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
-any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
-with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
-these things became the established order and nature of appointed
-things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
-Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
-the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
-sharp female called La Guillotine.
-
-It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
-it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
-peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
-shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
-and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
-human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
-from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
-believed in where the Cross was denied.
-
-It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
-were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
-Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
-the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
-good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
-dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
-The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
-functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
-namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
-day.
-
-Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
-with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
-end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
-current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
-away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
-months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
-wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
-that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
-violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
-under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
-terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
-that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
-in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
-victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
-appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
-other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
-he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
-a Spirit moving among mortals.
-
-
-
-
-V. The Wood-Sawyer
-
-
-One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
-sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
-husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
-tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
-women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
-old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
-daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
-and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
-Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
-bestow, O Guillotine!
-
-If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
-had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
-despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
-the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
-the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
-truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
-will always be.
-
-As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
-had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
-household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
-its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
-as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
-slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
-that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
-return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
-solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
-unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
-outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
-
-She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
-mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
-attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
-and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
-thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
-night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
-repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
-was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
-without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”
-
-They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
-father said to her, on coming home one evening:
-
-“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
-sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
-it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
-in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
-show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
-if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”
-
-“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”
-
-From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
-clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
-When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
-went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
-single day.
-
-It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
-of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
-end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
-her.
-
-“Good day, citizeness.”
-
-“Good day, citizen.”
-
-This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
-established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
-but, was now law for everybody.
-
-“Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“You see me, citizen!”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
-had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
-at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
-bars, peeped through them jocosely.
-
-“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.
-
-Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
-appeared.
-
-“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
-
-“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
-
-“Yes, dearest.”
-
-“Yes, citizen.”
-
-“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
-call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
-comes!”
-
-The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
-
-“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
-Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
-Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
-family!”
-
-Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
-impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
-his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
-first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
-
-He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
-him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
-up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
-with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
-not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
-briskly fall to his sawing again.
-
-In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
-spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
-in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
-this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
-Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
-five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
-for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
-see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
-waited out the day, seven days a week.
-
-These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
-father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
-afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
-rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
-decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
-also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
-(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
-
-The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
-surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
-somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
-with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
-and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
-saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
-female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
-was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
-
-But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
-and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
-afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
-prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
-The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
-they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
-than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
-keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
-Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
-together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
-mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
-filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
-apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
-advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
-another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
-in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
-linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
-and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
-all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
-reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
-again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
-of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
-up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
-as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
-innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
-a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
-heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
-warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
-bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
-delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
-the disjointed time.
-
-This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
-bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
-fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
-
-“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
-had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
-
-“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
-frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”
-
-“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
-husband, and the mercies of these people--”
-
-“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
-the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
-kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
-
-“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
-
-“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
-
-“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
-“no.”
-
-A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
- from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
-Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
-
-“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
-and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
-“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-“For to-morrow!”
-
-“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
-to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
-before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
-that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
-Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”
-
-She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
-
-“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
-be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
-protection. I must see Lorry.”
-
-He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
-both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
-away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
-
-“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
-
-The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
-and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
-and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
-better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
-hold his peace.
-
-A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
-the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
-Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
-deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
-National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
-Fraternity, or Death!
-
-Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
-chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
-agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
-he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
-turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
-he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
-
-
-
-
-VI. Triumph
-
-
-The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
-Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
-read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
-standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
-inside there!”
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
-
-So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
-
-When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
-for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
-Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
-hundreds pass away so.
-
-His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
-to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
-list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
-names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
-summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
-guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
-where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
-arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
-creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
-scaffold.
-
-There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
-soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
-were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
-concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
-there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
-refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
-common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
-who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
-insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
-time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
-or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
-brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
-boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
-seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
-disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
-like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
-them.
-
-The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
-vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
-put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
-were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
-
-“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.
-
-His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
-and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
-at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
-usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
-honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
-without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
-spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
-anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
-the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
-knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
-knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
-her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
-he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
-remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
-his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
-in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
-himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
-be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
-the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
-in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
-Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
-wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
-Carmagnole.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
-as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
-which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
-decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
-the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
-
-“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”
-
-The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
-prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
-England?
-
-Undoubtedly it was.
-
-Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
-
-Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
-
-Why not? the President desired to know.
-
-Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
-to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
-his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
-acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
-England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
-
-What proof had he of this?
-
-He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
-Alexandre Manette.
-
-But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
-
-True, but not an English woman.
-
-A citizeness of France?
-
-Yes. By birth.
-
-Her name and family?
-
-“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
-sits there.”
-
-This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
-of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
-the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
-countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
-if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
-
-On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
-according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
-counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
-inch of his road.
-
-The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
-sooner?
-
-He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
-of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
-he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
-He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
-a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
-absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
-testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
-in the eyes of the Republic?
-
-The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
-bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
- until they left off, of their own will.
-
-The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
-that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
-to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
-but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
-the President.
-
-The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
-it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
-and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
-Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
-pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
-enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
-overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
-of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
-had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
-declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
-answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
-called Darnay.
-
-Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
-and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
-proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
-release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
-England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
-their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
-government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
-the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
-circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
-straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
-populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
-Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
-had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
-account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
-they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
-receive them.
-
-At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
-set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
-favour, and the President declared him free.
-
-Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
-sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
-generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
-their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
-these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
-to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
-was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
-at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
-prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
-his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
-exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
-people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
-the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
-streets.
-
-His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
-rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
-together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
-assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
-itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
-him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
-hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
-of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
-Republic!”
-
-The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
-for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
-crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
-Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
-concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
-turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
-which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
-shore.
-
-They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
-taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
-Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
-had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
-even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
-on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
-and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
-he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
-was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
-
-In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
-him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
-prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
-they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
-him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
-had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
-feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
-
-As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
-face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
-together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
-rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
-Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
-crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
-overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
-and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
-them away.
-
-After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
-before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
-breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
-after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
-his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
-lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
-rooms.
-
-“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
-
-“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
-prayed to Him.”
-
-They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
-his arms, he said to her:
-
-“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
-could have done what he has done for me.”
-
-She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
-head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
-had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
-strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
-tremble so. I have saved him.”
-
-
-
-
-VII. A Knock at the Door
-
-
-“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
-often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
-vague but heavy fear was upon her.
-
-All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
-revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
-vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
-many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
-her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
-heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
-The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
-the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
-them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
-his real presence and trembled more.
-
-Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
-woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
-no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
-he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
-them all lean upon him.
-
-Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
-the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
-because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
-had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
-the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
-partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
-citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
-occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
-Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
-night.
-
-It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
-Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
-house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
-of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
-Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
-below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
-himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
-employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
-Darnay.
-
-In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
-harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
-in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
-were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
-shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
-possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
-
-For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
-office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
-basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
-lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
-such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
-association with a French family, might have known as much of their
-language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
-direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
-pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
-was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
-introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
-the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
-of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
-made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
-one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
-
-“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
-“if you are ready, I am.”
-
-Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
-all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
-
-“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
-have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
-these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
-
-“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
- retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”
-
-“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
-Nick's.”
-
-“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
-meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
-and Mischief.”
-
-“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.
-
-“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
-among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
-smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
-streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
-Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
-pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
-May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”
-
-“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.
-
-“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
-that,” said Miss Pross.
-
-“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
-
-“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
-short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
-Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
-as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
-tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
-
-Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
-after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
-
-“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
-had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
-“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
-way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
-with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
-prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
-
-“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
-
-“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
-glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
-must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
-fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
-you move, Ladybird!”
-
-They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
-child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
-Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
-a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
-sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
-in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
-a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
-a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
-quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
-
-“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
-
-“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
-on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
-least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”
-
-“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
-and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
-
-“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
-
-As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
-
-“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
-
-“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
-shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
-to the door.”
-
-He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
-and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
-men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
-
-“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
-
-“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
-
-“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
-Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”
-
-The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
-to him.
-
-“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”
-
-“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
-know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”
-
-Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
-stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
-moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
-the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
-woollen shirt, said:
-
-“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
-
-“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
-
-“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
-
-He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
-after a pause:
-
-“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
-the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
-had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
-
-The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
-
-“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
-
-“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
-
-“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
-more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
-a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
-The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”
-
-“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”
-
-“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
-Antoine here.”
-
-The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
-feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
-
-“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
-the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”
-
-“What other?”
-
-“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
-answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
-
-
-
-
-VIII. A Hand at Cards
-
-
-Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
-way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
-Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
-she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
-both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
-passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
-turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
-was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
-lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
-stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
-Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
-undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
-grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
-
-Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
-for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
-After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
-once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
-took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
-description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
-not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
-opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
-attended by her cavalier.
-
-Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
-playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
-bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
-the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
-resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
-popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
-like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
-the counter, and showed what they wanted.
-
-As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
-corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
-sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
-her hands.
-
-In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
-assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
-likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
-saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
-the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
-evidently English.
-
-What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
-Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
-voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
-Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
-ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
-not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
-Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
-account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.
-
-“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
-speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
-English.
-
-“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
-“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
-do I find you here!”
-
-“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
-man, in a furtive, frightened way.
-
-“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
-been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
-
-“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
-want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”
-
-Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
-affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”
-
-“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”
-
-Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
-word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
-through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
-so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
-of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
-language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
-pursuits.
-
-“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
-want?”
-
-“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
-from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
-affection.”
-
-“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
-lips with his own. “Now are you content?”
-
-Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
-
-“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
-surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
-you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
-do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
-am an official.”
-
-“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
-tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
-greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
-such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
-his--”
-
-“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
-the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
-as I am getting on!”
-
-“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
-rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
-loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
-and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
-detain you no longer.”
-
-Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
-culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
-ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
-her money and left her!
-
-He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
-condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
-merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
-all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
-hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
-question:
-
-“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
-or Solomon John?”
-
-The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
-previously uttered a word.
-
-“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
-was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
-calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
-you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
-name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
-was, over the water.”
-
-“No?”
-
-“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
-
-“Indeed?”
-
-“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
-at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
-yourself, was you called at that time?”
-
-“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
-
-“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
-
-The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
-him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
-elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
-
-“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
-surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
-elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
-myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
-better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
-was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”
-
-Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
-who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
-
-“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
-of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
-an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
-faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
-a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
-the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
-direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
-sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
-conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
-nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
-to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“What purpose?” the spy asked.
-
-“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
-street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
-company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”
-
-“Under a threat?”
-
-“Oh! Did I say that?”
-
-“Then, why should I go there?”
-
-“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”
-
-“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
-
-“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”
-
-Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
-quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
-and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
-made the most of it.
-
-“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
-sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
-
-“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
-But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
-pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
-satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”
-
-“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”
-
-“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
-own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
-at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
-knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
-ready? Come then!”
-
-Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
-remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
-in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
-purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
-contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
-too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
-her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
-heed what she observed.
-
-They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
-Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
-Pross, walked at his side.
-
-Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
-little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
-picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
-into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
-ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
-which he saw a stranger.
-
-“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”
-
-“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
-with the name--and with the face.”
-
-“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
-coolly. “Pray sit down.”
-
-As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
-by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
-immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
-look of abhorrence.
-
-“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
-brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
-relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”
-
-Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
-tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
-to return to him!”
-
-“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Just now, if at all.”
-
-“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
-have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
-over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
-messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
-earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
-of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
-might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
-silently attentive.
-
-“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
-Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
-would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”
-
-“Yes; I believe so.”
-
-“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
-to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
-power to prevent this arrest.”
-
-“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
-identified he is with his son-in-law.”
-
-“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
-chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.
-
-“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
-are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
-will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
-carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
-stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
-in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
-Barsad.”
-
-“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
-
-“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
-brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
-
-It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
-glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
-
-“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
-over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
-committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
-so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
-is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
-Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
-That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
-French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
-English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
-card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
-Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
-spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
-the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
-difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
-hand, Mr. Barsad?”
-
-“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
-
-“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
-Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
-hurry.”
-
-He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
-drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
-into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
-poured out and drank another glassful.
-
-“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
-
-It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
-in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
-employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
-there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
-vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
-date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
-France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
-there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
-knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
-Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
-such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
-release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
-familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
-Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
-with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
-talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
-He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
-again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
-guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
-he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
-he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
-his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
-terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
-grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
-that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
-proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
-his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
-terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
-the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
-
-“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
-composure. “Do you play?”
-
-“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
-Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
-put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
-under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
-of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
-considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
-somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
-himself as to make himself one?”
-
-“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
-and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
-
-“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
-hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”
-
-“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
-relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.
-
-“You think not, sir?”
-
-“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
-
-The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
-ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
-received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
-mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
-failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
-of contemplating cards:
-
-“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
-have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
-fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
-who was he?”
-
-“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
-
-“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
-at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”
-
-“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
-
-“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
-way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
-the face.”
-
-“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.
-
-“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
-glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
-French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”
-
-“Provincial,” said the spy.
-
-“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
-light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
-had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”
-
-“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
-aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
-me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
-distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
-attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
-of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
-multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
-to lay him in his coffin.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
-goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
-to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
-risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
-
-“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
-how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
-lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
-carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
-it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
-it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
-
-Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
-Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
-violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
-crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
-
-Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
-the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
-
-“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
-iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Who took him out of it?”
-
-Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”
-
-“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
-I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
-
-The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
-unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.
-
-“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
-that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
-take in. Me and two more knows it.”
-
-“How do you know it?”
-
-“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
-old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
-I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
-
-Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
-this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
-explain himself.
-
-“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
-ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
-wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
-in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
-throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
-quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”
-
-“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
-Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
-you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
-aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
-the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
-A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
-card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”
-
-“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
-with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
-of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
-he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
-man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
-
-“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
-Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
-that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
-be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
-liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
-guinea.”
-
-The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
-with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
-can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
-Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
-office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
-life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
-I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
-here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
-way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
-me?”
-
-“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”
-
-“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
- said the spy, firmly.
-
-“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
-Conciergerie?”
-
-“I am sometimes.”
-
-“You can be when you choose?”
-
-“I can pass in and out when I choose.”
-
-Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
-upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
-said, rising:
-
-“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
-the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
-into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
-
-
-
-
-IX. The Game Made
-
-
-While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
-dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
-at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
-manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
-leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
-and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
-questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
-his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
-hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
-infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
-
-“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
-of him.
-
-“What have you been, besides a messenger?”
-
-After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
-Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
-character.”
-
-“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
-at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
-as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
-description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
-get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
-Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
-
-“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
-yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
-would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
-is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
-it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
-to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
-up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
-fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
-yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
-their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
-out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
-Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
-goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
-in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
-a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
-ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
-it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
-and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
-undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
-with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
-much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
-prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
-all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
-once in--even if it wos so.”
-
-“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
-the sight of you.”
-
-“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
-“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”
-
-“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.
-
-“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
-further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
-would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
-that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
-be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
-your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
-wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
-you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
-his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
-let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
-for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
-a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
-That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
-arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
-discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
-see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
-without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
-to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
-things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
-fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
-cause when I might have kep' it back.”
-
-“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
-that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
-action--not in words. I want no more words.”
-
-Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
-returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
-arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
-
-He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
-were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
-
-“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
-to him, once.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
-
-“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
-to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
-worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
-weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”
-
-“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
-Tribunal, will not save him.”
-
-“I never said it would.”
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
-darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
-weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
-and his tears fell.
-
-“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
-voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
-father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
-sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
-however.”
-
-Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
-was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
-that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
-unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
-
-“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
-interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
-him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
-to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
-
-Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
-see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
-evidently understood it.
-
-“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
-only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
-I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
-little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
-You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”
-
-“I am going now, directly.”
-
-“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
-on you. How does she look?”
-
-“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
-
-“Ah!”
-
-It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
-attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
-fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
-passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
-wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
-flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
-and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
-light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
-all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
-sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
-his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
-broken under the weight of his foot.
-
-“I forgot it,” he said.
-
-Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
-wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
-the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
-reminded of that expression.
-
-“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
-to him.
-
-“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
-unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
-have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
-my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”
-
-They were both silent.
-
-“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.
-
-“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”
-
-“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
-trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
-
-“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
-may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”
-
-“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
-you when you leave it empty!”
-
-“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
-is nobody to weep for me.”
-
-“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”
-
-“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”
-
-“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”
-
-“Surely, surely.”
-
-“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
-'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
-respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
-regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
-your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
-not?”
-
-“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”
-
-Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
-few moments, said:
-
-“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
-days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
-
-Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
-
-“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
-closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
-nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
-preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
-that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
-and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
-so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
-
-“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
-you are the better for it?”
-
-“I hope so.”
-
-Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
-his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
-are young.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
-age. Enough of me.”
-
-“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”
-
-“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
-habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
-uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”
-
-“Yes, unhappily.”
-
-“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
-place for me. Take my arm, sir.”
-
-Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
-few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
-there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
-again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
-the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
-“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
-her steps.”
-
-It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
-where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
-closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
-
-“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
-man eyed him inquisitively.
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“How goes the Republic?”
-
-“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
-to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
-exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
-
-“Do you often go to see him--”
-
-“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
-citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
-than two pipes. Word of honour!”
-
-As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
-how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
-to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
-
-“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
-English dress?”
-
-“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
-
-“You speak like a Frenchman.”
-
-“I am an old student here.”
-
-“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”
-
-“Good night, citizen.”
-
-“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
-him. “And take a pipe with you!”
-
-Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
-the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
-of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
-the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
-for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
-terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
-his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
-thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
-
-Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
-counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
-whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”
-
-Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
-
-“For you, citizen?”
-
-“For me.”
-
-“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
-consequences of mixing them?”
-
-“Perfectly.”
-
-Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
-one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
-and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
-glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”
-
-It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
-aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
-negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
-had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
-his road and saw its end.
-
-Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
-youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
-mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
-read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
-streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
-on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
-he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
-whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
-rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
-and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
-and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
-brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
-might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
-went on.
-
-With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
-going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
-surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
-were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
-of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
-profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
-the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
-along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
-material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
-the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
-interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
-short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
-the lighter streets.
-
-Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
-suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
-shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
-people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
-one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
-for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
-and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
-
-“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me, shall never die.”
-
-Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
-were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
-and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
-heard them always.
-
-The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
-water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
-picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
-of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
-sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
-and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
-Death's dominion.
-
-But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
-of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
-And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
-appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
-sparkled under it.
-
-The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
-friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
-houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
-bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
-longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
-stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”
-
-A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
-glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
-in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
-for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
-ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”
-
-Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
-where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
-little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
-himself, went out to the place of trial.
-
-The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
-away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
-Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
-sitting beside her father.
-
-When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
-sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
-tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
-blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
-there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
-Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
-
-Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
-ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
-been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
-first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
-Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
-
-Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
-republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
-after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
-his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
-gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
-cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
-Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
-
-Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
-No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
-murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
-in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
-another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
-
-Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
-retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
-Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
-one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
-privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
-called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
-
-To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
-
-The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
-
-“Openly, President.”
-
-“By whom?”
-
-“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
-
-“Good.”
-
-“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
-
-A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
-Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
-
-“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
-a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
-daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
-and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
-of my child!”
-
-“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
-the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
-to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
-Republic.”
-
-Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
-with warmth resumed.
-
-“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
-herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
-to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
-
-Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
-his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
-closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
-and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
-
-Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
-being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
-his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
-and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
-This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
-
-“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”
-
-“I believe so.”
-
-Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
-best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
-there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
-it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”
-
-It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
-thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
-Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
- wherein she was likewise much commended.
-
-“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
-citizen.”
-
-“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
-bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
-“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
-known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
-knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
-when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
-when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
-the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
-gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
-stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
-that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
-of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
-I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
-the President.”
-
-“Let it be read.”
-
-In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
-lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
-solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
-reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
-never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
-intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
-follows.
-
-
-
-
-X. The Substance of the Shadow
-
-
-“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
-afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
-cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
-it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
-in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
-place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
-and my sorrows are dust.
-
-“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
-difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
-with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
-has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
-noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
-solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
-mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
-truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
-be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
-
-“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
-twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
-part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
-at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
-School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
-fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
-might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
-voice called to the driver to stop.
-
-“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
-and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
-was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
-door and alight before I came up with it.
-
-“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
-conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
-I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
-younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
-and (as far as I could see) face too.
-
-“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
-
-“I am.”
-
-“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
-physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
-has made a rising reputation in Paris?'
-
-“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
-graciously.'
-
-“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
-so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
-probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
-overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'
-
-“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
-were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
-They were armed. I was not.
-
-“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
-the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
-which I am summoned.'
-
-“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
-your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
-our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
-yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
-enter the carriage?'
-
-“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
-entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
-carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
-
-“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
-it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
-place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
-the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
-paper in its hiding-place.
-
- *****
-
-“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
-emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
-Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
-when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
-stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
-a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
-overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
-answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
-the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
-
-“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
-for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
-other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
-with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
-alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
-
-“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
-locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
-relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
-conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
-ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
-lying on a bed.
-
-“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
-past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
-her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
-all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
-scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
-and the letter E.
-
-“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
-for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
-edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
-in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
-her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
-corner caught my sight.
-
-“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
-and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
-wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
-words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
-twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
-to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
-would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
-would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
-order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
-pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
-
-“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'
-
-“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
-younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
-was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'
-
-“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
-
-“'A brother.'
-
-“'I do not address her brother?'
-
-“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'
-
-“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'
-
-“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'
-
-“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
-useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
-to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
-are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
-
-“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
-a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
-the table.
-
- *****
-
-“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
-lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
-poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
-
-“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.
-
-“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
-more.
-
-“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
-efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
-after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
-sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
-in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
-a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
-furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
-old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
-sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
-succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
-counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
-not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
-them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
-in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
-soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
-figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
-regular.
-
-“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
-the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
-before the elder said:
-
-“'There is another patient.'
-
-“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'
-
-“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
-
- *****
-
-“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
-was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
-to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
-there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
-the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
-pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
-and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
-this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
-captivity, as I saw them all that night.
-
-“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
-handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
-He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
-breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
-where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
-that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
-
-“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'
-
-“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
-
-“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
-The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
-before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
-without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
-brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
-ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
-as if he were a fellow-creature.
-
-“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.
-
-“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
-and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'
-
-“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
-answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
-have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
-have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
-vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
-the boy, or about his fate.
-
-“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
-slowly moved to me.
-
-“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
-proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
-we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'
-
-“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
-distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
-
-“I said, 'I have seen her.'
-
-“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
-Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
-have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
-so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
-tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
-The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
-
-“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
-to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
-
-“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
-are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
-work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
-to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
-for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
-plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
-ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
-people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
-and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
-dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
-most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
-race die out!'
-
-“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
-like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
-somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
-dying boy.
-
-“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
-poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
-him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
-been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
-her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
-us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
-hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
-then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
-willing?'
-
-“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
-looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
-opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
-Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
-trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
-
-“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
-harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
-drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
-grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
-may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
-night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
-not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
-could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
-bell, and died on her bosom.'
-
-“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
-tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
-he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
-wound.
-
-“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
-brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
-brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
-it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
-for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
-tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
-that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
-beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
-_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
-in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
-somewhere here?'
-
-“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
-him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
-over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
-
-“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
-dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
-at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
-make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
-that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
-at me with all his skill for his life.'
-
-“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
-a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
-another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
-
-“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
-
-“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
-referred to the brother.
-
-“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
-man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
-
-“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
-moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
-me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
-
-“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
-his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
-answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
-answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
-I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
-I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
-separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
-it.'
-
-“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
-forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
-finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
-down dead.
-
- *****
-
-“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
-in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
-for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
-grave.
-
-“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
-the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
-quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
-of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
-One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
-twelve. Hush!'
-
-“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
-come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
-falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
-by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
-
-“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
-fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
-compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
-her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
-a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
-had of her.
-
-“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
-elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
-
-“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
-
-“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
-at her with some curiosity.
-
-“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
-despair.'
-
-“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
-chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
-subdued voice,
-
-“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
-recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
-and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
-of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
-and not spoken of.'
-
-“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
-
-“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
-
-“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
-are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
-was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
-
-“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
-pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
-resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
-
- *****
-
-“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
-fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
-darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
-failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
-was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
-
-“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
-syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
-asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
-was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
-head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
-
-“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
-brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
-then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
-woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
-the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
-that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
-if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.
-
-“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
-brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
-peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
-of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
-to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
-brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
-for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
-me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
-in the mind of the elder, too.
-
-“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
-answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
-with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
-all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
-
-“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
-away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
-their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
-
-“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
-
-“'She is dead,' said I.
-
-“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
-
-“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
-gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
-the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
-nothing.
-
-“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
-
-“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
-them, and we parted without another word on either side.
-
- *****
-
-“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
-have written with this gaunt hand.
-
-“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
-little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
-considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
-to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
-summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
-circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
-of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
-heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
-profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
-in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
-I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
-compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
-
-“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
-night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
-It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
-completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
-
- *****
-
-“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
-so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
-dreadful.
-
-“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
-life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
-wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
-boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
-on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
-had seen that nobleman very lately.
-
-“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
-conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
-know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
-in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
-share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
-was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
-in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
-Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
-
-“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
-her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
-but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
-inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
-that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
-wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
-
- *****
-
-“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
-yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
-
-“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
-could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
-was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
-husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
-pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
-
-“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
-all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
-inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
-atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
-I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
-jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
-compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
-the sister can be discovered.'
-
-“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
-sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
-bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
-went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
-
-“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
-I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
-trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
-
-“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
-a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
-my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
-into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
-My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
-the gate, standing silent behind him.
-
-“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
-he had a coach in waiting.
-
-“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
-house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
-my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
-corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
-his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
-of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
-Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
-grave.
-
-“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
-brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
-my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
-dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
-now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
-they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
-last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
-night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
-when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
-and to earth.”
-
-A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
-sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
-blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
-and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
-
-Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
-how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
-Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
-time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
-anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
-The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
-sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
-
-And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
-well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
-of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
-the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
-self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
-said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
-physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
-rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
-a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
-orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
-human sympathy.
-
-“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
-smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”
-
-At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
-roar.
-
-Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
-of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
-Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
-
-
-
-
-XI. Dusk
-
-
-The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
-the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
-sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
-she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
-it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
-
-The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
-the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
-emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
-stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
-but love and consolation.
-
-“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
-you would have so much compassion for us!”
-
-There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
-taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
-show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
-him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
-passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
-leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
-
-“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
-shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
-
-They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
-
-“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
-for me. A parting blessing for our child.”
-
-“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
-you.”
-
-“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
-“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
-by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
-will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”
-
-Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
-of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
-
-“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
-to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
-you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
-know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
-her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
-duty. Heaven be with you!”
-
-Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
-and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
-
-“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
-together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
-discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
-near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
-nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
-bless you!”
-
-As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
-with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
-with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
-smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
-lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
-feet.
-
-Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
-Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
-with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
-Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
-flush of pride in it.
-
-“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”
-
-He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
-coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
-beside the driver.
-
-When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
-many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
-the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
-the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
-her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
-
-“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
-better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
-
-“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
-throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
-you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
-save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
-love her, bear to see her so?”
-
-He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
-put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
-
-“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
-
-It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
-with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
-him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
-handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
-
-When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
-and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
-
-“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
-be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
-you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
-
-“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
-strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
-answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
-
-“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
-and short, but try.”
-
-“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
-
-“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
-now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
-great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
-it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
-were not.”
-
-“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
-straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
-write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
-one will be accessible until dark.”
-
-“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
-forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
-speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
-these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”
-
-“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
-this.”
-
-“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
-go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
-our friend or from yourself?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“May you prosper!”
-
-Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
-shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
-
-“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
-
-“Nor have I.”
-
-“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
-him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
-to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
-court.”
-
-“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
-
-Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
-
-“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
-Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
-consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
-thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
-
-“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
-But he will perish; there is no real hope.”
-
-“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.
-
-And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-XII. Darkness
-
-
-Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
-Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
-do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
-these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
-precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
-Let me think it out!”
-
-Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
-turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
-in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
-confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
-should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
-towards Saint Antoine.
-
-Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
-the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
-well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
-its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
-at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
-first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
-had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
-dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
-done with it.
-
-It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
-into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
-stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
-the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
-his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.
-
-There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
-restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
-the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
-Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
-a regular member of the establishment.
-
-As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
-French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
-glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
-to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
-
-He repeated what he had already said.
-
-“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
-eyebrows.
-
-After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
-slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
-accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”
-
-Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
-took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
-meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”
-
-Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
-
-“How?”
-
-“Good evening.”
-
-“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
-drink to the Republic.”
-
-Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
- Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
-pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
- The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
-are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
-to-morrow!”
-
-Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
-forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
-their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
-of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
-disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
-their conversation.
-
-“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
-is great force in that. Why stop?”
-
-“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
-the question is still where?”
-
-“At extermination,” said madame.
-
-“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
-approved.
-
-“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
-troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
-suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
-the paper was read.”
-
-“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
-“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
-face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”
-
-“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
-“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
-
-“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
-his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
-have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
-I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
-finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
-his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
-if the axe had dropped.
-
-“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.
-
-“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
-
-“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
-depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
-man even now.”
-
-“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
-would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”
-
-“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
-too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
-tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
-doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.
-
-“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
-this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
-night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
-by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge.
-
-“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
-burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
-those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
-that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge again.
-
-“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
-hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
-among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
-by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
-family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
-was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
-was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
-those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
-descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”
-
-“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.
-
-“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
-tell me.”
-
-Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
-of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
-her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
-a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
-only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
-the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”
-
-Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
-paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
-a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
-took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
-The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
-be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
-deep.
-
-But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
-prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
-himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
-walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
-until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
-keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
-banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
-mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
-more than five hours gone: where could he be?
-
-Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
-he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
-should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
-In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
-
-He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
-did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
-brought none. Where could he be?
-
-They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
-weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
-the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
-lost.
-
-Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
-time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
-them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
-
-“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”
-
-His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
-straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
-
-“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
-can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
-finish those shoes.”
-
-They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
-
-“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
-work. Give me my work.”
-
-Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
-ground, like a distracted child.
-
-“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
-cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
-not done to-night?”
-
-Lost, utterly lost!
-
-It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
-that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
-soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
-have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
-embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
-time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
-the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
-
-Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
-of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
-daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
-too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
-one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
-
-“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
-to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
-me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
-exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”
-
-“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”
-
-The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
-rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
-they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
-night.
-
-Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
-feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
-carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
-took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
-at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
-exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”
-
-“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
-
-“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
-his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
-enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
-an Englishman?”
-
-Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
-
-“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
-remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
-Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
-and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
-frontier! You see?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
-yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
-up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
-within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
-good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
-think, will be.”
-
-“They are not in danger?”
-
-“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
-Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
-woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
-colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
-confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
-is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
-Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
-name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
-the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
-involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
-both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
-will save them all.”
-
-“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”
-
-“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
-on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
-until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
-more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
-mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
-father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
-inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
-strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”
-
-“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
-the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
-of this distress.”
-
-“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
-as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
-completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
-horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
-afternoon.”
-
-“It shall be done!”
-
-His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
-flame, and was as quick as youth.
-
-“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
-Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
-and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
-beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
-on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
-the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
-her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
-depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
-father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
-
-“I am sure of it.”
-
-“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
-the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
-The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
-
-“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”
-
-“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
-reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
-then for England!”
-
-“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
-hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
-and ardent man at my side.”
-
-“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
-influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
-another.”
-
-“Nothing, Carton.”
-
-“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
-any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
-inevitably be sacrificed.”
-
-“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”
-
-“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”
-
-Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
-put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
-helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
-as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
-where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
-to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
-courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
-the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
-it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
-there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
-her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
-Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-XIII. Fifty-two
-
-
-In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
-their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
-to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
-everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
-were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
-the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
-apart.
-
-Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
-whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
-poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
-in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
-and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
-intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
-without distinction.
-
-Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
-flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
-of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
-fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
-that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
-avail him nothing.
-
-Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
-before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
-was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
-and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
-when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
-this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
-a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
-resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
-child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
-selfish thing.
-
-But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
-was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
-road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
-him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
-enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
-by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
-thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
-
-Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
-travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
-of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
-prison lamps should be extinguished.
-
-He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
-of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
-and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
-responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
-already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
-he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
-her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
-had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
-for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
-become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
-to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
-that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
-preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
-he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
-mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
-discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
-besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
-her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
-of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
-reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
-sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
-blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
-dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
-father.
-
-To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
-father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
-he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
-despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
-tending.
-
-To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
-That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
-attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
-full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
-
-He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
-he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
-
-But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
-forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
-nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
-heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
-he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
-suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
-was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
-sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
-flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
-
-Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
-were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
-meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
-thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
-
-He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
-high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
-stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
-red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
-or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
-directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
-times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
-fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
-to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
-few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
-the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
-
-The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
-numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
-ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
-contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
-him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
-repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
-He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
-himself and for them.
-
-Twelve gone for ever.
-
-He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
-be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
-and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
-before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
-interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
-
-Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
-different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
-he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
-measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
-recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
-turned to walk again.
-
-Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
-
-The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
-as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
-me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
-no time!”
-
-The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
-face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
-features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
-
-There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
-first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
-imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
-hand, and it was his real grasp.
-
-“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
-
-“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
-are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”
-
-“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
-here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
-wife, dear Darnay.”
-
-The prisoner wrung his hand.
-
-“I bring you a request from her.”
-
-“What is it?”
-
-“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
-in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
-remember.”
-
-The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
-
-“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
-no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
-wear, and draw on these of mine.”
-
-There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
-Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
-him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
-
-“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
-them. Quick!”
-
-“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
-will only die with me. It is madness.”
-
-“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
-to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
-that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
-it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
-this of mine!”
-
-With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
-that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
-The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
-
-“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
-can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
-not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
-
-“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
-refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
-steady enough to write?”
-
-“It was when you came in.”
-
-“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”
-
-Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
-Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
-
-“Write exactly as I speak.”
-
-“To whom do I address it?”
-
-“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.
-
-“Do I date it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
-his hand in his breast, looked down.
-
-“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
-between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
-You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”
-
-He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
-up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
-something.
-
-“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.
-
-“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”
-
-“No; I am not armed.”
-
-“What is it in your hand?”
-
-“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
-dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
-them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
-words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
-moved down close to the writer's face.
-
-The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
-him vacantly.
-
-“What vapour is that?” he asked.
-
-“Vapour?”
-
-“Something that crossed me?”
-
-“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
-and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
-
-As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
-prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
-with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
-hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
-
-“Hurry, hurry!”
-
-The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
-
-“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
-softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
-If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
-should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
-otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
-unintelligible signs.
-
-Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
-with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
-nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
-seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
-life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
-the ground.
-
-Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
-dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
-his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
-softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.
-
-“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
-insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
-great?”
-
-“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
-hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
-the whole of your bargain.”
-
-“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”
-
-“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
-made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”
-
-“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
-rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
-take me to the coach.”
-
-“You?” said the Spy nervously.
-
-“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
-you brought me in?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
-take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
-happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
-Quick! Call assistance!”
-
-“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
-last moment.
-
-“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
-solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
-moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
-him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
-yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
-last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
-
-The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
-forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
-
-“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
-afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
-Sainte Guillotine?”
-
-“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
-if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
-
-They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
-brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
-
-“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.
-
-“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
-you, and leave me.”
-
-“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”
-
-The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
-listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
-suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
-footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
-made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
-sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
-
-Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
-began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
-finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
-saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
-at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
-within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
-the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
-standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
-but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
-fixedly at the ground.
-
-As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
-were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
-as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
-discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
-woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
-no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
-the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
-
-“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
-poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”
-
-He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”
-
-“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
-likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
-like me?”
-
-The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
-started from his eyes.
-
-“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
-am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
-to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
-Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
-
-As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
-warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
-
-“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”
-
-“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
-
-“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
-hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
-more courage.”
-
-As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
-them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
-fingers, and touched his lips.
-
-“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
-
-“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
-
-“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
-
-“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
-
- *****
-
-The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
-same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
-it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
-
-“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
-
-The papers are handed out, and read.
-
-“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
-
-This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
-pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
-Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
-
-Greatly too much for him.
-
-“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
-
-This is she.
-
-“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”
-
-It is.
-
-“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
-This is she?”
-
-She and no other.
-
-“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
-something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
-English. Which is he?”
-
-He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
-
-“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”
-
-It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
-he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
-under the displeasure of the Republic.
-
-“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
-displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
-Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”
-
-“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”
-
-It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
-is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
-door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
-carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
-carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
-the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
-mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
-an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
-
-“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”
-
-“One can depart, citizen?”
-
-“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”
-
-“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”
-
-These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
-looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
-is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
-
-“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
- asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
-
-“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
-it would rouse suspicion.”
-
-“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
-
-“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”
-
-Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
-dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
-trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
-either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
-stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
-sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
-wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
-anything but stopping.
-
-Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
-farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
-avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
-by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
-no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
-the posting-house.
-
-Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
-the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
-of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
-existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
-plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
-their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
-All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
-far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
-
-At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
-behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
-on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
-animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
-haunches. We are pursued?
-
-“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”
-
-“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
-
-“How many did they say?”
-
-“I do not understand you.”
-
-“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”
-
-“Fifty-two.”
-
-“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
-forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
-handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”
-
-The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
-to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
-by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
-us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
-
-The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
-the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
-us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
-
-
-
-
-XIV. The Knitting Done
-
-
-In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
-Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
-Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
-Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
-erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
-conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
-was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
-
-“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
-Republican? Eh?”
-
-“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
-notes, “in France.”
-
-“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
-a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
-fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
-well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
-his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”
-
-“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
-with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
-citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
-
-“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
-his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
-me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
-child must follow the husband and father.”
-
-“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
-eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
-them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
-
-Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
-
-“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
-of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
-there. It is a pretty sight!”
-
-“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
-“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
-last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
-but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
-and then they might escape.”
-
-“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
-have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”
-
-“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
-pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
-regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
-therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”
-
-The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
-submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
-
-“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
-“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
-this very day?”
-
-“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
-two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
-without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”
-
-He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
-imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
-never seen.
-
-“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”
-
-“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
-eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
-
-“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
-fellow-Jurymen.”
-
-“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
-Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
-I spare him?”
-
-“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
-“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”
-
-“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
-cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
-trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
-bad witness.”
-
-The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
-protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
-witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
-celestial witness.
-
-“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
-him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
-to-day executed.--You?”
-
-The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
-the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
-of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
-Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
-smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
-barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
-suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
-him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
-for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
-
-“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
-over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
-will give information against these people at my Section.”
-
-The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
-citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
-her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
-hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
-
-Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
-the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
-
-“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
-be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
-justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
-I will go to her.”
-
-“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
-Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
-embraced her.
-
-“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
-lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
-me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
-greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
-
-“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
-alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”
-
-“I shall be there before the commencement.”
-
-“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
-The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
-street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
-
-Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
-might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
-mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
-Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
-of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
-
-There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
-disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
-than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
-strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
-determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
-to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
-instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
-heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
-with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
-opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
-pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
-her.
-
-It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
-his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
-his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
-insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
-her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
-hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
-been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
-she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
-been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
-softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
-sent her there.
-
-Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
-worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
-dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
-bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
-dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
-a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
-walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
-sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
-
-Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
-waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
-the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
-attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
-but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
-it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
-escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
-Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
-and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
-three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
-Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
-passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
-advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
-of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
-
-Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
-pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
-beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
-passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
-their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
-taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
-else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
-
-“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
-was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
-“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
-carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
-suspicion.”
-
-“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
-wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
-
-“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
-Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
-_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”
-
-“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
-hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
-mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
-two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
-crisis?”
-
-“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
-them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
-
-“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
-an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
-more will I do it, never no more!”
-
-“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
-never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
-necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
-
-“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
-poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
-Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
-
-“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
-striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
-is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
-superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”
-
-“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
-most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
-be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
-opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
-hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
-time.”
-
-“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
-Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
-
-“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
-additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
-out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
-earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
-flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
-risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
-conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
-
-And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
-nearer and nearer.
-
-“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
-upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
-understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
-you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
-earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
-Cruncher, let us think!”
-
-Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
-and nearer.
-
-“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
-horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
-that be best?”
-
-Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
-
-“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.
-
-Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
-Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
-Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
-
-“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
-the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
-towers?”
-
-“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.
-
-“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
-straight, and make that change.”
-
-“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
-“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”
-
-“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
-Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
-and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
-of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
-that may depend on both of us!”
-
-This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
-clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
-immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
-to follow as she had proposed.
-
-The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
-execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
-her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
-streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
-minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
-
-Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
-rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
-in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
-which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
-could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
-dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
-was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
-out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
-
-The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
-Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
-those feet had come to meet that water.
-
-Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
-where is she?”
-
-It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
-and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
-four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
-the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
-
-Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
-and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
-about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
-of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
-way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
-
-“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
-Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
-me. I am an Englishwoman.”
-
-Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
-Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
-hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
-woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
-Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
-that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
-
-“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
-her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
-knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
-wish to see her.”
-
-“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
-depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”
-
-Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
-both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
-the unintelligible words meant.
-
-“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
-moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
-Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”
-
-“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
-was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
-you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”
-
-Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
-detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
-at naught.
-
-“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
-answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
-to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
- This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
-
-“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
-understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
-except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
-part of it.”
-
-Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
-Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
-first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
-
-“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
-English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
-greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
-dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
-
-Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
-between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
-Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
-
-But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
-irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
-Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
-laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
-Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
-of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
-answer the Citizeness Defarge!”
-
-Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
-expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
-either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
-Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
-
-“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
-are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
-you! Let me look.”
-
-“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
-Madame Defarge understood the answer.
-
-“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
-brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.
-
-“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
-uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
-know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
-that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”
-
-“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
-I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
-Madame Defarge.
-
-“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
-not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
-while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
-my darling,” said Miss Pross.
-
-Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
-moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
-It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
-with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
-clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
-that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
-face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
-clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
-
-Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
-waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
-shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
-you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
-
-Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
-what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
-alone--blinded with smoke.
-
-All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
-stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
-whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
-
-In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
-body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
-fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
-what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
-go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
-get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
-out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
-away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
-and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
-
-By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
-gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
-was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
-like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
-gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
-dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
-hundred ways.
-
-In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
-at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
-she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
-it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
-discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
-charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
-escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
-
-“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
-question and by her aspect.
-
-“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”
-
-It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
-not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
-all events she'll see that.” And she did.
-
-“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
-presently.
-
-Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
-
-“I don't hear it.”
-
-“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
-much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
-
-“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
-and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”
-
-“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
-more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
-Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”
-
-“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
-my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
-and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
-broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
-
-“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
-journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
-opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
-
-And indeed she never did.
-
-
-
-
-XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
-
-
-Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
-tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
-insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
-are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
-France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
-a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
-conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
-humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
-twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
-rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
-the same fruit according to its kind.
-
-Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
-they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
-the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
-toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
-house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
-No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
-of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
-into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
-the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
-form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
- Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
-
-As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
-a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
-are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
-So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
-in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
-hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
-the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
-then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
-curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
-tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
-
-Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
-things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
-a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
-drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
-heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
-they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
-and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
-he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
-drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
-number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
-
-There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
-and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
-question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
-always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
-horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
-their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
-at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
-mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
-no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
-girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
-against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
-shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
-touch his face, his arms being bound.
-
-On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
-the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
-He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
-sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
-
-“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
-
-“That. At the back there.”
-
-“With his hand in the girl's?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
-Down, Evremonde!”
-
-“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
-
-“And why not, citizen?”
-
-“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
-Let him be at peace.”
-
-But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
-Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
-Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
-
-The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
-populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
-end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
-close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
-to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
-public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
-fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
-
-“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
-Defarge!”
-
-“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
-
-“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”
-
-“Louder,” the woman recommends.
-
-Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
-thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
-it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
-lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
-deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
-enough to find her!
-
-“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
-here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
-she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
-her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”
-
-As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
-begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
-robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
-scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
-think and speak, count One.
-
-The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
-the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
-
-The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
-after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
-still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
-crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
-his face and thanks him.
-
-“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
-naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
-able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
-have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
-Heaven.”
-
-“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
-and mind no other object.”
-
-“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
-it go, if they are rapid.”
-
-“They will be rapid. Fear not!”
-
-The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
-if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
-heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
-and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
-together, and to rest in her bosom.
-
-“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
-am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”
-
-“Tell me what it is.”
-
-“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
-love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
-farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
-nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
-tell her! It is better as it is.”
-
-“Yes, yes: better as it is.”
-
-“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
-thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
-much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
-and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
-live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
-
-“What then, my gentle sister?”
-
-“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
-endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
-“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
-where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”
-
-“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”
-
-“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
-moment come?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
-The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
-a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
-him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
-
-“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
-in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
-believeth in me shall never die.”
-
-The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
-on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
-forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
-Twenty-Three.
-
- *****
-
-They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
-peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
-sublime and prophetic.
-
-One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
-at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
-write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
-utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
-
-“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
-long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
-the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
-out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
-rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
-their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
-of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
-birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
-
-“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
-prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
-Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
-aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
-healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
-friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
-tranquilly to his reward.
-
-“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
-their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
-for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
-course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
-that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
-than I was in the souls of both.
-
-“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
-winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
-winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
-light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
-fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
-with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
-look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
-tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
-
-“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
-far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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diff --git "a/DataStructureNotes/notes/12\347\272\242\351\273\221\346\240\221.md" "b/DataStructureNotes/notes/12\347\272\242\351\273\221\346\240\221.md"
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-
-* [红黑树](#红黑树)
- * [什么是红黑树](#什么是红黑树)
- * [红黑树和2-3树](#红黑树和2-3树)
- * [红黑树性质](#红黑树性质)
- * [向红黑树中添加新元素](#向红黑树中添加新元素)
- * [保持根节点为黑色](#保持根节点为黑色)
- * [左旋转](#左旋转)
- * [颜色翻转](#颜色翻转)
- * [右旋转](#右旋转)
- * [添加新元素](#添加新元素)
- * [红黑树性能总结](#红黑树性能总结)
-
-
-# 红黑树
-## 什么是红黑树
-### 2-3树
-- 2-3树性质:
-
-1.满足二叉搜索树的基本性质
-
-2.节点可以存放一个或者两个元素
-
-
-
-3.2-3树是一棵绝对平衡的树(从根节点到叶子节点所经过的节点数都相同)
-
-- 下图是一棵完整的2-3树:
-
-
-
-### 2-3树是如何维持绝对平衡的
-- 向2-节点中插入数据
-
-
-
-- 向3-节点中插入数据
-
-
-
-- 向3-节点中插入数据,并且该3-节点父节点是2-节点
-
-
-
-- 向3-节点中插入数据,并且该3-节点父节点也是3-节点
-
-
-
-## 红黑树和2-3树
-- 2-3树中2-节点等同于红黑树中的“黑”节点,红黑树中的“红”节点+红边+“黑”节点就等同于2-3树中的3-节点
-
-
-
-基于红黑树和2-3树的关系,我们可以将2-3树转化为红黑树:
-
-
-
-即
-
-
-
-## 红黑树性质
-1.每个节点或者是红色的,或者是黑色的
-
-2.根节点是黑色的
-
-3.每一个叶子节点(最后的空节点)是黑色的
-
-4.如果一个节点是红色的,那么它们的孩子节点都是黑色的
-
-5.从任意一个节点到叶子节点,锁经过的黑色节点都是一样的
-
-
-
-## 向红黑树中添加新元素
-```java
-public class RBTree,V>{
- private static final boolean RED=true;
- private static final boolean BLACK=false;
-
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node left,right;
- public boolean color;
- public Node(K key,V value){
- this.key=key;
- this.value=value;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- //2-3树中添加一个新元素
- //元素添加进2-节点,会形成3-节点
- //元素添加进3-节点,会先形成4-节点,然后进行相应的转换
- //由于2-3树和红黑树等价性,该节点初始化为红色,就是在模拟这个过程
- this.color=RED;
- }
- }
-}
-```
-
-### 保持根节点为黑色
-```java
-//判断节点是否是红色
-private boolean isRed(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return BLACK;
- }
- return node.color;
-}
-
-public void add(K key, V value) {
- root=add(root,key,value);
- //红黑树性质: 2.根节点是黑色的
- root.color=BLACK;
-}
-```
-
-### 左旋转
-对以node为根节点的如下子树进行左旋转:
-
-
-
-**1.node.right=x.left**
-
-
-
-**2.x.left=node**
-
-
-
-**3.颜色转换**
-
-
-
-```java
-//左旋转
-// node x
-// / \ 左旋转 / \
-// T1 x ---------> node T3
-// / \ / \
-// T2 T3 T1 T2
-private Node leftRotate(Node node){
- Node x=node.right;
-
- //左旋转
- node.right=x.left;
- x.left=node;
-
- //改变节点颜色
- x.color=node.color;
- node.color=RED;
-
- return x;
-}
-```
-
-### 颜色翻转
-
-2-3树中3-节点插入66:
-
-
-
-对应的红黑树中:
-
-
-
-
-
-此时可以将这三个节点就是2-3树中的4-节点,这时就需要颜色翻转:
-
-
-
-注:44转换为红色,方便后续的操作,(与其他的节点“融合”)
-
-```java
-//颜色翻转
-private void flipColors(Node node){
- node.color=RED;
- node.left.color=BLACK;
- node.right.color=BLACK;
-}
-```
-
-### 右旋转
-
-
-**1.node.left=T1**
-
-
-**2.node.right=node**
-
-
-**3.颜色转换**
-
-
-```java
-//右旋转
-// node x
-// / \ 右旋转 / \
-// x T2 -------> y node
-// / \ / \
-// y T1 T1 T2
-private Node rightRotate(Node node) {
- Node x=node.left;
-
- //右旋转
- node.left=x.right;
- x.right=node;
-
- x.color=node.color;
- node.color=RED;
-
- return x;
-}
-```
-
-### 添加新元素
-
-
-
-```java
-public void add(K key, V value) {
- root=add(root,key,value);
- //红黑树性质: 2.根节点是黑色的
- root.color=BLACK;
-}
-
-private Node add(Node node,K key,V value){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(key,value);
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,key,value);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,key,value);
- }else{
- node.value=value;
- }
-
- // 黑
- // /
- // 红
- // \
- // 红
- //左旋转
- if(isRed(node.right) && !isRed(node.left)){
- node=leftRotate(node);
- }
-
- // 黑
- // /
- // 红
- // /
- // 红
- //右旋转
- if(isRed(node.left) && isRed(node.left.left)){
- node=rightRotate(node);
- }
-
- // 黑
- // / \
- // 红 红
- // 颜色翻转
- if(isRed(node.left) && isRed(node.right)){
- flipColors(node);
- }
- return node;
-}
-```
-
-## 红黑树性能总结
-- 对于完全随机的数据,建议使用普通的BST。但是在极端情况下,会退化成链表!(或者高度不平衡)
-
-- 对于查询较多的使用情况,建议使用AVL树。
-
-- 红黑树牺牲了平衡性(2log n的高度),统计性能更优(增删改查所有的操作)
\ No newline at end of file
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: Pride and Prejudice
-
-Author: Jane Austen
-
-Posting Date: August 26, 2008 [EBook #1342]
-Release Date: June, 1998
-Last Updated: March 10, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Anonymous Volunteers
-
-
-
-
-
-PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
-
-By Jane Austen
-
-
-
-Chapter 1
-
-
-It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession
-of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
-
-However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
-first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds
-of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property
-of some one or other of their daughters.
-
-“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that
-Netherfield Park is let at last?”
-
-Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
-
-“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she
-told me all about it.”
-
-Mr. Bennet made no answer.
-
-“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.
-
-“_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
-
-This was invitation enough.
-
-“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken
-by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came
-down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much
-delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he
-is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to
-be in the house by the end of next week.”
-
-“What is his name?”
-
-“Bingley.”
-
-“Is he married or single?”
-
-“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or
-five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
-
-“How so? How can it affect them?”
-
-“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome! You
-must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”
-
-“Is that his design in settling here?”
-
-“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he
-_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as
-soon as he comes.”
-
-“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send
-them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are
-as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the
-party.”
-
-“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but
-I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five
-grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.”
-
-“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”
-
-“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into
-the neighbourhood.”
-
-“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”
-
-“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would
-be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to
-go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no
-newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to
-visit him if you do not.”
-
-“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very
-glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my
-hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though
-I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.”
-
-“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the
-others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so
-good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference.”
-
-“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he; “they are
-all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of
-quickness than her sisters.”
-
-“Mr. Bennet, how _can_ you abuse your own children in such a way? You
-take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.”
-
-“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They
-are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration
-these last twenty years at least.”
-
-“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”
-
-“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four
-thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”
-
-“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not
-visit them.”
-
-“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them
-all.”
-
-Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
-reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had
-been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind
-was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding,
-little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented,
-she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her
-daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.
-
-
-
-Chapter 2
-
-
-Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He
-had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring
-his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was
-paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following
-manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he
-suddenly addressed her with:
-
-“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
-
-“We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother
-resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”
-
-“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the
-assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him.”
-
-“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces
-of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion
-of her.”
-
-“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that you do
-not depend on her serving you.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain
-herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
-
-“Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little
-compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”
-
-“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she times
-them ill.”
-
-“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully. “When is
-your next ball to be, Lizzy?”
-
-“To-morrow fortnight.”
-
-“Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come back
-till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him,
-for she will not know him herself.”
-
-“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce
-Mr. Bingley to _her_.”
-
-“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him
-myself; how can you be so teasing?”
-
-“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly
-very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a
-fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else will; and after all,
-Mrs. Long and her neices must stand their chance; and, therefore, as
-she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will
-take it on myself.”
-
-The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, “Nonsense,
-nonsense!”
-
-“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he. “Do
-you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on
-them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,
-Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read
-great books and make extracts.”
-
-Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.
-
-“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return to Mr.
-Bingley.”
-
-“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.
-
-“I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me that before? If
-I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called
-on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we
-cannot escape the acquaintance now.”
-
-The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.
-Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy
-was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the
-while.
-
-“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
-persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
-neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a
-good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a
-word about it till now.”
-
-“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and,
-as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.
-
-“What an excellent father you have, girls!” said she, when the door was
-shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;
-or me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so
-pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but
-for your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_
-the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next
-ball.”
-
-“Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
-youngest, I'm the tallest.”
-
-The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would
-return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to
-dinner.
-
-
-
-Chapter 3
-
-
-Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
-daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her
-husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him
-in various ways--with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
-distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at
-last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,
-Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
-delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
-agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
-with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
-dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively
-hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.
-
-“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,”
- said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well
-married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”
-
-In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about
-ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
-admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had
-heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more
-fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper
-window that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.
-
-An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already
-had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
-housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
-was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable
-to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite
-disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
-so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
-he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never
-settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears
-a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get
-a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley
-was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.
-The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the
-day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only
-six with him from London--his five sisters and a cousin. And when
-the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five
-altogether--Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and
-another young man.
-
-Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant
-countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
-with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
-looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention
-of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and
-the report which was in general circulation within five minutes
-after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen
-pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he
-was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great
-admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust
-which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be
-proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all
-his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
-forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared
-with his friend.
-
-Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal
-people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,
-was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving
-one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for
-themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
-only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being
-introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in
-walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.
-His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man
-in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again.
-Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of
-his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his
-having slighted one of her daughters.
-
-Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit
-down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been
-standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr.
-Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend
-to join it.
-
-“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you
-standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better
-dance.”
-
-“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
-particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this
-it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not
-another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to
-stand up with.”
-
-“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. Bingley, “for a
-kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in
-my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see
-uncommonly pretty.”
-
-“_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr.
-Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
-
-“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one
-of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I
-dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”
-
-“Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at
-Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said:
-“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; I am in no
-humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted
-by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her
-smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”
-
-Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
-remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story,
-however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,
-playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.
-
-The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
-Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield
-party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been
-distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as
-her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's
-pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most
-accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
-fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they
-had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good
-spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
-were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With
-a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a
-good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised
-such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on
-the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a
-different story to hear.
-
-“Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a most
-delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.
-Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well
-she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with
-her twice! Only think of _that_, my dear; he actually danced with her
-twice! and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second
-time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand
-up with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody
-can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
-down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and
-asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King,
-and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again,
-and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_--”
-
-“If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband impatiently,
-“he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of
-his partners. Oh that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!”
-
-“Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
-handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw
-anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.
-Hurst's gown--”
-
-Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
-description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch
-of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some
-exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
-
-“But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much by not
-suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at
-all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring
-him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very
-great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my
-dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 4
-
-
-When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in
-her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very
-much she admired him.
-
-“He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible,
-good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much
-ease, with such perfect good breeding!”
-
-“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man ought
-likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.”
-
-“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I
-did not expect such a compliment.”
-
-“Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between
-us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What
-could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help
-seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman
-in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is
-very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a
-stupider person.”
-
-“Dear Lizzy!”
-
-“Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general.
-You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable
-in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your
-life.”
-
-“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak
-what I think.”
-
-“I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_
-good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of
-others! Affectation of candour is common enough--one meets with it
-everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the
-good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing
-of the bad--belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters,
-too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.”
-
-“Certainly not--at first. But they are very pleasing women when you
-converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep
-his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming
-neighbour in her.”
-
-Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at
-the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more
-quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister,
-and with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she
-was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine
-ladies; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the
-power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and
-conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the
-first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
-pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of
-associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect
-entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of
-a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply
-impressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their
-own had been acquired by trade.
-
-Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred
-thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
-estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and
-sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a
-good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those
-who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the
-remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to
-purchase.
-
-His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but,
-though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no
-means unwilling to preside at his table--nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had
-married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider
-his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of
-age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation
-to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for
-half-an-hour--was pleased with the situation and the principal
-rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it
-immediately.
-
-Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of
-great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the
-easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition
-could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he
-never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley
-had the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion.
-In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means
-deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty,
-reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not
-inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley
-was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
-giving offense.
-
-The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
-characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or
-prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive
-to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt
-acquainted with all the room; and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not
-conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a
-collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for
-none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received
-either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,
-but she smiled too much.
-
-Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so--but still they admired
-her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one
-whom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore
-established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized by such
-commendation to think of her as he chose.
-
-
-
-Chapter 5
-
-
-Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets
-were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade
-in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the
-honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty.
-The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a
-disgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town;
-and, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house
-about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge,
-where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and,
-unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all
-the world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him
-supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By
-nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St.
-James's had made him courteous.
-
-Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a
-valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest
-of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was
-Elizabeth's intimate friend.
-
-That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over
-a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly
-brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.
-
-“_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with civil
-self-command to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice.”
-
-“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”
-
-“Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be
-sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed I rather believe he
-_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something
-about Mr. Robinson.”
-
-“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not
-I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton
-assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many
-pretty women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his
-answering immediately to the last question: 'Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet,
-beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.'”
-
-“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed--that does seem as
-if--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”
-
-“_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,” said
-Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,
-is he?--poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_.”
-
-“I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his
-ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite
-a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he
-sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips.”
-
-“Are you quite sure, ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?” said Jane.
-“I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”
-
-“Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he
-could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at
-being spoke to.”
-
-“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much,
-unless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is remarkably
-agreeable.”
-
-“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very
-agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it
-was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had
-heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to
-the ball in a hack chaise.”
-
-“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I
-wish he had danced with Eliza.”
-
-“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with _him_,
-if I were you.”
-
-“I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.”
-
-“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ so much as pride
-often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so
-very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour,
-should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_
-to be proud.”
-
-“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive
-_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.”
-
-“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her
-reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have
-ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human
-nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us
-who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some
-quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different
-things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may
-be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of
-ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
-
-“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with
-his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of
-foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.”
-
-“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs.
-Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle
-directly.”
-
-The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she
-would, and the argument ended only with the visit.
-
-
-
-Chapter 6
-
-
-The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit
-was soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on
-the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was
-found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to,
-a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards
-the two eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest
-pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment
-of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;
-though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
-all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It
-was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her and
-to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference
-which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a
-way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it
-was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane
-united, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
-uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions
-of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
-
-“It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to impose
-on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be
-so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill
-from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and
-it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in
-the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every
-attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all
-_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are
-very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without
-encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show _more_
-affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he
-may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”
-
-“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can
-perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to
-discover it too.”
-
-“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.”
-
-“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal
-it, he must find it out.”
-
-“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane
-meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they
-always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that
-every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should
-therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his
-attention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for
-falling in love as much as she chooses.”
-
-“Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in
-question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined
-to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But
-these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet,
-she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its
-reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four
-dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,
-and has since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite
-enough to make her understand his character.”
-
-“Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might
-only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must
-remember that four evenings have also been spent together--and four
-evenings may do a great deal.”
-
-“Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they
-both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other
-leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.”
-
-“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and
-if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a
-chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a
-twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If
-the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or
-ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the
-least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to
-have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as
-possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your
-life.”
-
-“You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not
-sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”
-
-Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth
-was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some
-interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely
-allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the
-ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no
-sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly
-had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
-uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To
-this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
-detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry
-in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
-pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those
-of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of
-this she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made
-himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough
-to dance with.
-
-He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing
-with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so
-drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were
-assembled.
-
-“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my
-conversation with Colonel Forster?”
-
-“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”
-
-“But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see
-what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by
-being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.”
-
-On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have
-any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such
-a subject to him; which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she
-turned to him and said:
-
-“Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly
-well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at
-Meryton?”
-
-“With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady
-energetic.”
-
-“You are severe on us.”
-
-“It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am going
-to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”
-
-“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me
-to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken
-a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would
-really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of
-hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,
-she added, “Very well, if it must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing
-at Mr. Darcy, “There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of
-course familiar with: 'Keep your breath to cool your porridge'; and I
-shall keep mine to swell my song.”
-
-Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song
-or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that
-she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her
-sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in
-the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always
-impatient for display.
-
-Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her
-application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited
-manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she
-had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with
-much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the
-end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by
-Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who,
-with some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in
-dancing at one end of the room.
-
-Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
-passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too
-much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was
-his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:
-
-“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There
-is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first
-refinements of polished society.”
-
-“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst
-the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance.”
-
-Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he
-continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I doubt
-not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.”
-
-“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”
-
-“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do
-you often dance at St. James's?”
-
-“Never, sir.”
-
-“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”
-
-“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.”
-
-“You have a house in town, I conclude?”
-
-Mr. Darcy bowed.
-
-“I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself--for I am fond
-of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of
-London would agree with Lady Lucas.”
-
-He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed
-to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was
-struck with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to
-her:
-
-“My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow
-me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You
-cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you.”
- And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy who, though
-extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly
-drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William:
-
-“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you
-not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”
-
-Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of
-her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at
-all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.
-
-“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny
-me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the
-amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us
-for one half-hour.”
-
-“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
-
-“He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza,
-we cannot wonder at his complaisance--for who would object to such a
-partner?”
-
-Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
-injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some
-complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:
-
-“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”
-
-“I should imagine not.”
-
-“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings
-in this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.
-I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise--the
-nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would
-I give to hear your strictures on them!”
-
-“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
-agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure
-which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”
-
-Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he
-would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.
-Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:
-
-“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
-
-“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment.
-How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray, when am I to wish you
-joy?”
-
-“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's
-imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love
-to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.”
-
-“Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is
-absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed;
-and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you.”
-
-He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to
-entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her
-that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
-
-
-
-Chapter 7
-
-
-Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
-thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed,
-in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's
-fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply
-the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and
-had left her four thousand pounds.
-
-She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to
-their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in
-London in a respectable line of trade.
-
-The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
-convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted
-thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and
-to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,
-Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;
-their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing
-better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning
-hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news
-the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
-from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with
-news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the
-neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the
-headquarters.
-
-Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most
-interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge
-of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a
-secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr.
-Phillips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a store of
-felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and
-Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation
-to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the
-regimentals of an ensign.
-
-After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.
-Bennet coolly observed:
-
-“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two
-of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but
-I am now convinced.”
-
-Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect
-indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter,
-and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the
-next morning to London.
-
-“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so
-ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly
-of anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however.”
-
-“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.”
-
-“Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”
-
-“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I
-had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must
-so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly
-foolish.”
-
-“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of
-their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will
-not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when
-I liked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my
-heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,
-should want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him; and I thought
-Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in
-his regimentals.”
-
-“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain
-Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first
-came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with
-a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited
-for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was
-eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,
-
-“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well,
-Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”
-
-“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.
-
-“MY DEAR FRIEND,--
-
-“If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me,
-we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives,
-for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a
-quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the
-gentlemen are to dine with the officers.--Yours ever,
-
-“CAROLINE BINGLEY”
-
-“With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of
-_that_.”
-
-“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.”
-
-“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.
-
-“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to
-rain; and then you must stay all night.”
-
-“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that
-they would not offer to send her home.”
-
-“Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton,
-and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”
-
-“I had much rather go in the coach.”
-
-“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are
-wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?”
-
-“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”
-
-“But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother's purpose
-will be answered.”
-
-She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses
-were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her
-mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a
-bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before
-it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was
-delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;
-Jane certainly could not come back.
-
-“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet more than
-once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the
-next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her
-contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield
-brought the following note for Elizabeth:
-
-“MY DEAREST LIZZY,--
-
-“I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be
-imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not
-hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr.
-Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been
-to me--and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the
-matter with me.--Yours, etc.”
-
-“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note
-aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she
-should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of
-Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”
-
-“Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling
-colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is
-all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.”
-
-Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though
-the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking
-was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.
-
-“How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a
-thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get
-there.”
-
-“I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want.”
-
-“Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the
-horses?”
-
-“No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing
-when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.”
-
-“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but every
-impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,
-exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.”
-
-“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia.
-Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off
-together.
-
-“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we may
-see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”
-
-In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one
-of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing
-field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing
-over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last
-within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face
-glowing with the warmth of exercise.
-
-She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
-assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise.
-That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such
-dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and
-Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt
-for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their
-brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there
-was good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr.
-Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the
-brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as
-to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was
-thinking only of his breakfast.
-
-Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss
-Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not
-well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her
-immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving
-alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed
-for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,
-however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them
-together, could attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the
-extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended
-her.
-
-When breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth
-began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and
-solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having
-examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught
-a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;
-advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice
-was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head
-ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were
-the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in
-fact, nothing to do elsewhere.
-
-When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very
-unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only
-wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern
-in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer
-of the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.
-Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to
-Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply
-of clothes.
-
-
-
-Chapter 8
-
-
-At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six
-Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then
-poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the
-much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very
-favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing
-this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how
-shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked
-being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their
-indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored
-Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.
-
-Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could
-regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his
-attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling
-herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the
-others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was
-engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.
-Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to
-eat, drink, and play at cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain
-dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.
-
-When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley
-began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were
-pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;
-she had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the
-same, and added:
-
-“She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent
-walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really
-looked almost wild.”
-
-“She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very
-nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the
-country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!”
-
-“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep
-in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to
-hide it not doing its office.”
-
-“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was
-all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably
-well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite
-escaped my notice.”
-
-“_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am
-inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your_ sister make such
-an exhibition.”
-
-“Certainly not.”
-
-“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,
-above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by
-it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence,
-a most country-town indifference to decorum.”
-
-“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said
-Bingley.
-
-“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, “that
-this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”
-
-“Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.” A
-short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:
-
-“I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very
-sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with
-such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is
-no chance of it.”
-
-“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in
-Meryton.”
-
-“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
-
-“That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.
-
-“If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it
-would not make them one jot less agreeable.”
-
-“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any
-consideration in the world,” replied Darcy.
-
-To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their
-hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of
-their dear friend's vulgar relations.
-
-With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room on
-leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.
-She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till
-late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and
-when it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go
-downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole
-party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting
-them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the
-excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
-below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
-
-“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.”
-
-“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a great
-reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”
-
-“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I am
-_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”
-
-“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and
-I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.”
-
-Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the
-table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her
-others--all that his library afforded.
-
-“And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
-credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more
-than I ever looked into.”
-
-Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those
-in the room.
-
-“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left
-so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at
-Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
-
-“It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many
-generations.”
-
-“And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying
-books.”
-
-“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as
-these.”
-
-“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of
-that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be
-half as delightful as Pemberley.”
-
-“I wish it may.”
-
-“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
-neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a
-finer county in England than Derbyshire.”
-
-“With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.”
-
-“I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”
-
-“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
-Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”
-
-Elizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her very
-little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew
-near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his
-eldest sister, to observe the game.
-
-“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley; “will
-she be as tall as I am?”
-
-“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or
-rather taller.”
-
-“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me
-so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished
-for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”
-
-“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience
-to be so very accomplished as they all are.”
-
-“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”
-
-“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and
-net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure
-I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being
-informed that she was very accomplished.”
-
-“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has
-too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no
-otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very
-far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I
-cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my
-acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”
-
-“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.
-
-“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your
-idea of an accomplished woman.”
-
-“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”
-
-“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really
-esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met
-with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,
-dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides
-all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
-walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word
-will be but half-deserved.”
-
-“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must
-yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by
-extensive reading.”
-
-“I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.
-I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”
-
-“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all
-this?”
-
-“I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and
-application, and elegance, as you describe united.”
-
-Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her
-implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
-answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
-bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all
-conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the
-room.
-
-“Elizabeth Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her,
-“is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the
-other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it
-succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.”
-
-“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
-“there is a meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend
-to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is
-despicable.”
-
-Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
-continue the subject.
-
-Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and
-that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for
-immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could
-be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most
-eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so
-unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled
-that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet
-were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters
-declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
-however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief
-to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every
-attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.
-
-
-
-Chapter 9
-
-
-Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the
-morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the
-inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
-and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
-sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a
-note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her
-own judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and
-its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her
-two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
-
-Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been
-very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was
-not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her
-restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She
-would not listen, therefore, to her daughter's proposal of being carried
-home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think
-it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
-Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all
-attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes
-that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.
-
-“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be
-moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass
-a little longer on your kindness.”
-
-“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am
-sure, will not hear of her removal.”
-
-“You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,
-“that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she
-remains with us.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
-
-“I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do not
-know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers
-a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is
-always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest
-temper I have ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are
-nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a
-charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the
-country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it
-in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.”
-
-“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if I
-should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five
-minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.”
-
-“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth.
-
-“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards her.
-
-“Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly.”
-
-“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen
-through I am afraid is pitiful.”
-
-“That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate
-character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”
-
-“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in
-the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”
-
-“I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you were a
-studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”
-
-“Yes, but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at
-least that advantage.”
-
-“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but a few subjects for
-such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and
-unvarying society.”
-
-“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be
-observed in them for ever.”
-
-“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning
-a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of _that_
-going on in the country as in town.”
-
-Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,
-turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete
-victory over him, continued her triumph.
-
-“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for
-my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal
-pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”
-
-“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it;
-and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their
-advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”
-
-“Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that
-gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing
-at all.”
-
-“Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her
-mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not
-such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town,
-which you must acknowledge to be true.”
-
-“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting
-with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few
-neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.”
-
-Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his
-countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eyes towards
-Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of
-saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if
-Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.
-
-“Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir
-William is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So
-genteel and easy! He has always something to say to everybody. _That_
-is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very
-important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.”
-
-“Did Charlotte dine with you?”
-
-“No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For
-my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work;
-_my_ daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to
-judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls,
-I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think
-Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend.”
-
-“She seems a very pleasant young woman.”
-
-“Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself
-has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast
-of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody
-better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own
-partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother
-Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was
-sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he
-did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses
-on her, and very pretty they were.”
-
-“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There has
-been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first
-discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”
-
-“I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said Darcy.
-
-“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is
-strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I
-am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.”
-
-Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth
-tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to
-speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.
-Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to
-Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was
-unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be
-civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part
-indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and
-soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of
-her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to
-each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the
-youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming
-into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.
-
-Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion
-and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose
-affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high
-animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the
-attention of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners, and her own
-easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very
-equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and
-abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most
-shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this
-sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear:
-
-“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when
-your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of
-the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.”
-
-Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes--it would be much better to
-wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter
-would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,” she
-added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel
-Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned
-instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the
-remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,
-could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of
-all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.
-
-
-
-Chapter 10
-
-
-The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss
-Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who
-continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined
-their party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear.
-Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching
-the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by
-messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and
-Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
-
-Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
-attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual
-commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness
-of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern
-with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was
-exactly in union with her opinion of each.
-
-“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
-
-He made no answer.
-
-“You write uncommonly fast.”
-
-“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
-
-“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a
-year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”
-
-“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.”
-
-“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
-
-“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
-
-“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend
-pens remarkably well.”
-
-“Thank you--but I always mend my own.”
-
-“How can you contrive to write so even?”
-
-He was silent.
-
-“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp;
-and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful
-little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss
-Grantley's.”
-
-“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At
-present I have not room to do them justice.”
-
-“Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
-always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
-
-“They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me
-to determine.”
-
-“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with
-ease, cannot write ill.”
-
-“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her
-brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for
-words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
-
-“My style of writing is very different from yours.”
-
-“Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way
-imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”
-
-“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which
-means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”
-
-“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.”
-
-“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of
-humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an
-indirect boast.”
-
-“And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?”
-
-“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in
-writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
-thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you
-think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with
-quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any
-attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
-Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield
-you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of
-panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very
-laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business
-undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”
-
-“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the
-foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour,
-I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this
-moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless
-precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.”
-
-“I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that
-you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as
-dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were
-mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better
-stay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not
-go--and at another word, might stay a month.”
-
-“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did
-not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much
-more than he did himself.”
-
-“I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting what my
-friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am
-afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means
-intend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a
-circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I
-could.”
-
-“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions
-as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”
-
-“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for
-himself.”
-
-“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine,
-but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to
-stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet,
-that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and
-the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering
-one argument in favour of its propriety.”
-
-“To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit
-with you.”
-
-“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of
-either.”
-
-“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of
-friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make
-one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason
-one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have
-supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
-circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour
-thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,
-where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no
-very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying
-with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”
-
-“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to
-arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to
-appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting
-between the parties?”
-
-“By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars, not
-forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more
-weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure
-you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with
-myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not
-know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in
-particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening,
-when he has nothing to do.”
-
-Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was
-rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly
-resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her
-brother for talking such nonsense.
-
-“I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an argument,
-and want to silence this.”
-
-“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss
-Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very
-thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”
-
-“What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.
-Darcy had much better finish his letter.”
-
-Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
-
-When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth
-for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity
-to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead
-the way which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she
-seated herself.
-
-Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed,
-Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books
-that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed
-on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
-admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her
-because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine,
-however, at last that she drew his notice because there was something
-more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in
-any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked
-him too little to care for his approbation.
-
-After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by
-a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near
-Elizabeth, said to her:
-
-“Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an
-opportunity of dancing a reel?”
-
-She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some
-surprise at her silence.
-
-“Oh!” said she, “I heard you before, but I could not immediately
-determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'
-that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always
-delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of
-their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell
-you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if
-you dare.”
-
-“Indeed I do not dare.”
-
-Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his
-gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her
-manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy
-had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really
-believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
-should be in some danger.
-
-Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great
-anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some
-assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
-
-She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of
-their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
-
-“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery
-the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this
-desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;
-and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after
-officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to
-check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,
-which your lady possesses.”
-
-“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”
-
-“Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed
-in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the
-judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different
-lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not have it taken, for
-what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”
-
-“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their
-colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be
-copied.”
-
-At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and
-Elizabeth herself.
-
-“I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some
-confusion, lest they had been overheard.
-
-“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without
-telling us that you were coming out.”
-
-Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk
-by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness,
-and immediately said:
-
-“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the
-avenue.”
-
-But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,
-laughingly answered:
-
-“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear
-to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a
-fourth. Good-bye.”
-
-She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of
-being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered
-as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.
-
-
-
-Chapter 11
-
-
-When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her
-sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the
-drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many
-professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable
-as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.
-Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an
-entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh
-at their acquaintance with spirit.
-
-But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object;
-Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had
-something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed
-himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also
-made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad;” but diffuseness
-and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and
-attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she
-should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire
-to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from
-the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone
-else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great
-delight.
-
-When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
-card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.
-Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open
-petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and
-the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.
-Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the
-sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;
-and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets
-and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss
-Bennet.
-
-Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.
-Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she
-was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She
-could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her
-question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be
-amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the
-second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant
-it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no
-enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a
-book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not
-an excellent library.”
-
-No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and
-cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing
-her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly
-towards him and said:
-
-“By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at
-Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult
-the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are
-not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a
-pleasure.”
-
-“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he
-chooses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled
-thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send
-round my cards.”
-
-“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were
-carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
-tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
-more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of
-the day.”
-
-“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be
-near so much like a ball.”
-
-Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked
-about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but
-Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In
-the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and,
-turning to Elizabeth, said:
-
-“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a
-turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so
-long in one attitude.”
-
-Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley
-succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked
-up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as
-Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was
-directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that
-he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down
-the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would
-interfere. “What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his
-meaning?”--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him?
-
-“Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be severe
-on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing
-about it.”
-
-Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in
-anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his
-two motives.
-
-“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon
-as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing
-the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret
-affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures
-appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be
-completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better
-as I sit by the fire.”
-
-“Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so
-abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”
-
-“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Elizabeth. “We
-can all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate
-as you are, you must know how it is to be done.”
-
-“But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has
-not yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and presence of
-mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will
-not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a
-subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.”
-
-“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an
-uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would
-be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a
-laugh.”
-
-“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be.
-The wisest and the best of men--nay, the wisest and best of their
-actions--may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in
-life is a joke.”
-
-“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth--“there are such people, but I hope I
-am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good.
-Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own,
-and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely
-what you are without.”
-
-“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study
-of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong
-understanding to ridicule.”
-
-“Such as vanity and pride.”
-
-“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real
-superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”
-
-Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
-
-“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley;
-“and pray what is the result?”
-
-“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it
-himself without disguise.”
-
-“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
-but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
-for. It is, I believe, too little yielding--certainly too little for the
-convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others
-so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings
-are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper
-would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost
-forever.”
-
-“_That_ is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment
-_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I
-really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.”
-
-“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
-evil--a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”
-
-“And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.”
-
-“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand
-them.”
-
-“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
-conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my
-waking Mr. Hurst?”
-
-Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was
-opened; and Darcy, after a few moments' recollection, was not sorry for
-it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.
-
-
-
-Chapter 12
-
-
-In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the
-next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for
-them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on
-her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which
-would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive
-them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at
-least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
-Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage
-before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley
-and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them
-very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively
-resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the
-contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,
-she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at
-length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield
-that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.
-
-The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was
-said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work
-on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was
-then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike
-of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.
-
-The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so
-soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be
-safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where
-she felt herself to be right.
-
-To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at
-Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss
-Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to himself.
-He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration
-should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope
-of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been
-suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight
-in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke
-ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were
-at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most
-conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.
-
-On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost
-all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last
-very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,
-after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her
-to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most
-tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of
-the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.
-
-They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet
-wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much
-trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their
-father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really
-glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The
-evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of
-its animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and
-Elizabeth.
-
-They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human
-nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of
-threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information
-for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said
-in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers
-had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it
-had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.
-
-
-
-Chapter 13
-
-
-“I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at
-breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,
-because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.”
-
-“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure,
-unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in--and I hope _my_ dinners
-are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.”
-
-“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr.
-Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr.
-Bingley. But--good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be
-got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell--I must speak to Hill this
-moment.”
-
-“It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I
-never saw in the whole course of my life.”
-
-This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being
-eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at once.
-
-After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:
-
-“About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago
-I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring
-early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead,
-may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.”
-
-“Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.
-Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing
-in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own
-children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago
-to do something or other about it.”
-
-Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They
-had often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which
-Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail
-bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of
-five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
-
-“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and
-nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.
-But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little
-softened by his manner of expressing himself.”
-
-“No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of
-him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false
-friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did
-before him?”
-
-“Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that
-head, as you will hear.”
-
-“Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.
-
-“Dear Sir,--
-
-“The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured
-father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the
-misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but
-for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might
-seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone
-with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.--'There, Mrs.
-Bennet.'--My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having
-received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be
-distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de
-Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has
-preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be
-my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her
-ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which
-are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I
-feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in
-all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I
-flatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and
-that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate
-will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the
-offered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the
-means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for
-it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible
-amends--but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to
-receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting
-on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and
-shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'ennight
-following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine
-is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided
-that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.--I
-remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and
-daughters, your well-wisher and friend,
-
-“WILLIAM COLLINS”
-
-“At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,”
- said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most
-conscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will
-prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so
-indulgent as to let him come to us again.”
-
-“There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however, and if
-he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to
-discourage him.”
-
-“Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can mean
-to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his
-credit.”
-
-Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady
-Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying
-his parishioners whenever it were required.
-
-“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him
-out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he
-mean by apologising for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he
-would help it if he could.--Could he be a sensible man, sir?”
-
-“No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the
-reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his
-letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.”
-
-“In point of composition,” said Mary, “the letter does not seem
-defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I
-think it is well expressed.”
-
-To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any
-degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should
-come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had
-received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for
-their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will,
-and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which
-astonished her husband and daughters.
-
-Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great
-politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the
-ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in
-need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a
-tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and
-stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated
-before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of
-daughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this
-instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did
-not doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This
-gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.
-Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most readily.
-
-“You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may
-prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so
-oddly.”
-
-“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”
-
-“Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you
-must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things
-I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates
-will go when once they come to be entailed.”
-
-“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and
-could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing
-forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come
-prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps,
-when we are better acquainted--”
-
-He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each
-other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The
-hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised;
-and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet's
-heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his
-own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and
-he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its
-cooking was owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who
-assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a
-good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He
-begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared
-herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a
-quarter of an hour.
-
-
-
-Chapter 14
-
-
-During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants
-were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his
-guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to
-shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady
-Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for
-his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen
-better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him
-to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect
-he protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in
-a person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself
-experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to
-approve of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of
-preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,
-and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of
-quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many
-people he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her.
-She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she
-made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
-neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or
-two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to
-marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had
-once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly
-approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed
-to suggest some herself--some shelves in the closet up stairs.”
-
-“That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet, “and
-I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies
-in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?”
-
-“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane
-from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence.”
-
-“I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”
-
-“She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
-extensive property.”
-
-“Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than
-many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?”
-
-“She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says
-that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the
-handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks
-the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly
-constitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many
-accomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am
-informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still
-resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends
-to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”
-
-“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at
-court.”
-
-“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;
-and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the
-British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased
-with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to
-offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable
-to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that
-her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most
-elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by
-her. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and
-it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to
-pay.”
-
-“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for you
-that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask
-whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the
-moment, or are the result of previous study?”
-
-“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I
-sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant
-compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to
-give them as unstudied an air as possible.”
-
-Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd
-as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,
-maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,
-and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner
-in his pleasure.
-
-By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad
-to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over,
-glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily
-assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything
-announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and
-begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at
-him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some
-deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the
-volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three
-pages, she interrupted him with:
-
-“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away
-Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me
-so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more
-about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.”
-
-Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.
-Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:
-
-“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books
-of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes
-me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to
-them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.”
-
-Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at
-backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted
-very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements.
-Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's
-interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would
-resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his
-young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any
-affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared
-for backgammon.
-
-
-
-Chapter 15
-
-
-Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had
-been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part
-of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and
-miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he
-had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful
-acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had
-given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a
-good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in
-retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected
-prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de
-Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which
-he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,
-mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a
-clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of
-pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
-
-Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to
-marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had
-a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found
-them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.
-This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's
-estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and
-suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own
-part.
-
-His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet's lovely face
-confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what
-was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled
-choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a
-quarter of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a
-conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally
-to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at
-Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
-encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. “As to
-her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could
-not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession; her
-_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her
-to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.”
-
-Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon
-done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally
-next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.
-
-Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have
-two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of
-the day before was now high in her good graces.
-
-Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister
-except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,
-at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,
-and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed
-him after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with
-one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.
-Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such
-doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
-always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told
-Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the
-house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,
-was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their
-walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker
-than a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go.
-
-In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his
-cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of
-the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were
-immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and
-nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in
-a shop window, could recall them.
-
-But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom
-they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking
-with another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was
-the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came
-to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the
-stranger's air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia,
-determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under
-pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately
-had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had
-reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated
-permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with
-him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a
-commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the
-young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming.
-His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of
-beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address.
-The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness
-of conversation--a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and
-unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together
-very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy
-and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the
-ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and
-began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and
-Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to
-Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated
-it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes
-on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the
-stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they
-looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.
-Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham,
-after a few moments, touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just
-deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to
-imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.
-
-In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what
-passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
-
-Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of
-Mr. Phillip's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's
-pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of
-Mrs. Phillips's throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the
-invitation.
-
-Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest,
-from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was
-eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as
-their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing
-about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the
-street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to
-Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility
-was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She
-received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with
-as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous
-acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself,
-however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who
-introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite awed by such an
-excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon
-put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom,
-however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that
-Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a
-lieutenant's commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the
-last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr.
-Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the
-occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the
-officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid,
-disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses
-the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.
-Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn
-would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips
-protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
-tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such
-delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
-Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured
-with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.
-
-As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass
-between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either
-or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain
-such behaviour than her sister.
-
-Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring
-Mrs. Phillips's manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady
-Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman;
-for she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even
-pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although
-utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be
-attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so
-much attention in the whole course of his life.
-
-
-
-Chapter 16
-
-
-As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their
-aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for
-a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach
-conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and
-the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,
-that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in
-the house.
-
-When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
-Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much
-struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he
-might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast
-parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much
-gratification; but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what
-Rosings was, and who was its proprietor--when she had listened to the
-description of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found
-that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
-the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison
-with the housekeeper's room.
-
-In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,
-with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and
-the improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the
-gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive
-listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she
-heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as
-soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,
-and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine
-their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the
-interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however.
-The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,
-Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking
-of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration.
-The officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,
-gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but
-Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and
-walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips,
-breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.
-
-Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was
-turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated
-himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into
-conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel
-that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered
-interesting by the skill of the speaker.
-
-With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the
-officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young
-ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind
-listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly
-supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he
-had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.
-
-“I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be glad
-to improve myself, for in my situation in life--” Mrs. Phillips was very
-glad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.
-
-Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
-received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there
-seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most
-determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,
-she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets
-and exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular.
-Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore
-at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear
-him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be
-told--the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not
-even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly
-relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far
-Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in
-a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.
-
-“About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject
-drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I
-understand.”
-
-“Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A clear
-ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more
-capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for
-I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my
-infancy.”
-
-Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
-
-“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after
-seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting
-yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”
-
-“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I have
-spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very
-disagreeable.”
-
-“I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being
-agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him
-too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_
-to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general
-astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly
-anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.”
-
-“Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in
-the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in
-Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find
-him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”
-
-“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short
-interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond
-their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The
-world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his
-high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”
-
-“I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
-ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.
-
-“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is
-likely to be in this country much longer.”
-
-“I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I
-was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will
-not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”
-
-“Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_
-wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,
-and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for
-avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense
-of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he
-is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men
-that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never
-be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by
-a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
-scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and
-everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the
-memory of his father.”
-
-Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with
-all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.
-
-Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
-neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that
-he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very
-intelligible gallantry.
-
-“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added,
-“which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be
-a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me
-further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great
-attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them.
-Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and
-my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.
-A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have
-now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I
-was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in
-possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we
-were speaking of just now.”
-
-“Indeed!”
-
-“Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best
-living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.
-I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,
-and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given
-elsewhere.”
-
-“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How could his
-will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?”
-
-“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to
-give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the
-intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely
-conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim
-to it by extravagance, imprudence--in short anything or nothing. Certain
-it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was
-of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no
-less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
-anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and
-I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can
-recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort
-of men, and that he hates me.”
-
-“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”
-
-“Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I
-can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.”
-
-Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than
-ever as he expressed them.
-
-“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can
-have induced him to behave so cruelly?”
-
-“A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but
-attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me
-less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon
-attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had
-not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort
-of preference which was often given me.”
-
-“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked
-him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be
-despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of
-descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as
-this.”
-
-After a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_
-remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of
-his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition
-must be dreadful.”
-
-“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “I can hardly
-be just to him.”
-
-Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To
-treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his
-father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like _you_, whose very
-countenance may vouch for your being amiable”--but she contented herself
-with, “and one, too, who had probably been his companion from childhood,
-connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!”
-
-“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest
-part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,
-sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_
-father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Phillips,
-appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up everything to be of
-use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the
-Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most
-intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to
-be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendence,
-and when, immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
-voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to
-be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his affection to myself.”
-
-“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that the very
-pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If from no better
-motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest--for
-dishonesty I must call it.”
-
-“It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions may
-be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has
-connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are
-none of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger
-impulses even than pride.”
-
-“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”
-
-“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money
-freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the
-poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride--for he is very proud of what
-his father was--have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family,
-to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the
-Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,
-which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and
-careful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up
-as the most attentive and best of brothers.”
-
-“What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”
-
-He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to
-speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother--very, very
-proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond
-of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is
-nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen,
-and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her
-home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her
-education.”
-
-After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not
-help reverting once more to the first, and saying:
-
-“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,
-who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,
-be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you
-know Mr. Bingley?”
-
-“Not at all.”
-
-“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.
-Darcy is.”
-
-“Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not
-want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth
-his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is
-a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His
-pride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just,
-sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable--allowing something
-for fortune and figure.”
-
-The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round
-the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin
-Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to his success were
-made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every
-point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon,
-he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least
-importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged
-that she would not make herself uneasy.
-
-“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a
-card-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I
-am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There
-are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady
-Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
-little matters.”
-
-Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for
-a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation
-was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.
-
-“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him
-a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her
-notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”
-
-“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy
-were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.”
-
-“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's
-connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
-yesterday.”
-
-“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is
-believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”
-
-This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss
-Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her
-affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already
-self-destined for another.
-
-“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her
-daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,
-I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his
-patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.”
-
-“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have
-not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked
-her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the
-reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe
-she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
-her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride for her
-nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an
-understanding of the first class.”
-
-Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and
-they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper
-put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
-Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise
-of Mrs. Phillips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to
-everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done
-gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could
-think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all
-the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name
-as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia
-talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
-fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and
-Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses
-at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing
-that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage
-before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.
-
-
-
-Chapter 17
-
-
-Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr.
-Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she
-knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
-Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the
-veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The
-possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to
-interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be
-done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each,
-and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be
-otherwise explained.
-
-“They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some way
-or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps
-misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to
-conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,
-without actual blame on either side.”
-
-“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on
-behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the
-business? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of
-somebody.”
-
-“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my
-opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light
-it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such
-a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is
-impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his
-character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so
-excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.”
-
-“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than
-that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me
-last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it
-be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his
-looks.”
-
-“It is difficult indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to
-think.”
-
-“I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”
-
-But Jane could think with certainty on only one point--that Mr. Bingley,
-if he _had_ been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair
-became public.
-
-The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this
-conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had
-been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal
-invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed
-for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their
-dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly
-asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To
-the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet
-as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to
-the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an
-activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if
-eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.
-
-The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every
-female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in
-compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered
-by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a
-ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the
-society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and
-Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.
-Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy's look
-and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended
-less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they
-each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham,
-he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball
-was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she
-had no disinclination for it.
-
-“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough--I
-think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.
-Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those
-who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for
-everybody.”
-
-Elizabeth's spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did
-not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking
-him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if
-he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's
-amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no
-scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke
-either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to
-dance.
-
-“I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball
-of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people,
-can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing
-myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair
-cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of
-soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,
-a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right
-cause, and not to any disrespect for her.”
-
-Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being
-engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins
-instead! her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help
-for it, however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own were perforce
-delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as
-good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his
-gallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first
-struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy
-of being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a
-quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.
-The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing
-civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a
-compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than
-gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before
-her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage
-was extremely agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose
-to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the
-consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and
-till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.
-
-If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the
-younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this
-time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there
-was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton
-once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after--the very
-shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have
-found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the
-improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than
-a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and
-Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
-
-
-
-Chapter 18
-
-
-Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in
-vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a
-doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty
-of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that
-might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than
-usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all
-that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than
-might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose
-the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's
-pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though
-this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was
-pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who
-told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the
-day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile,
-“I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if
-he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.”
-
-This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by
-Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for
-Wickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every
-feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate
-disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to
-the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.
-Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She
-was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away
-with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in
-speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.
-
-But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect
-of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her
-spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had
-not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition
-to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular
-notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress;
-they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
-apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being
-aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable
-partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from
-him was ecstasy.
-
-She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of
-Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances
-were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with
-her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who took
-her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that,
-without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again
-immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of
-mind; Charlotte tried to console her:
-
-“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”
-
-“Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find
-a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an
-evil.”
-
-When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her
-hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a
-simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant
-in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no
-answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which
-she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and
-reading in her neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding
-it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
-imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at
-first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would
-be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made
-some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again
-silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time
-with:--“It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked
-about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some sort of remark on the size
-of the room, or the number of couples.”
-
-He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be
-said.
-
-“Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may
-observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But
-_now_ we may be silent.”
-
-“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”
-
-“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be
-entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of
-_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the
-trouble of saying as little as possible.”
-
-“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you
-imagine that you are gratifying mine?”
-
-“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great
-similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,
-taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say
-something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
-posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.”
-
-“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,”
- said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_
-think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”
-
-“I must not decide on my own performance.”
-
-He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down
-the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often
-walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist
-the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just
-been forming a new acquaintance.”
-
-The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his
-features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself
-for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a
-constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners
-as may ensure his _making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of
-_retaining_ them, is less certain.”
-
-“He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,” replied Elizabeth
-with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all
-his life.”
-
-Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At
-that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass
-through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.
-Darcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on
-his dancing and his partner.
-
-“I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very
-superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the
-first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not
-disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,
-especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at
-her sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then
-flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:--but let me not interrupt you, sir. You
-will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that
-young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”
-
-The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir
-William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his
-eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and
-Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,
-he turned to his partner, and said, “Sir William's interruption has made
-me forget what we were talking of.”
-
-“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have
-interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves.
-We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we
-are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
-
-“What think you of books?” said he, smiling.
-
-“Books--oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same
-feelings.”
-
-“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be
-no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
-
-“No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of
-something else.”
-
-“The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?” said he,
-with a look of doubt.
-
-“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her
-thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared
-by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,
-that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was
-unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being
-created_.”
-
-“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.
-
-“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
-
-“I hope not.”
-
-“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,
-to be secure of judging properly at first.”
-
-“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
-
-“Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she, endeavouring
-to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”
-
-“And what is your success?”
-
-She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different
-accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
-
-“I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may vary
-greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were
-not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to
-fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”
-
-“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
-opportunity.”
-
-“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied.
-She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in
-silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree,
-for in Darcy's breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards
-her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against
-another.
-
-They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her, and
-with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:
-
-“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham!
-Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand
-questions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among
-his other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late
-Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to
-give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's
-using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has
-always been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated
-Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but
-I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he
-cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother
-thought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to
-the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself
-out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent
-thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,
-Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really,
-considering his descent, one could not expect much better.”
-
-“His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,” said
-Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse
-than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can
-assure you, he informed me himself.”
-
-“I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.
-“Excuse my interference--it was kindly meant.”
-
-“Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much mistaken
-if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see
-nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.
-Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make
-inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of
-such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently
-marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening.
-Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for
-Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way
-before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.
-
-“I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her
-sister's, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have
-been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case
-you may be sure of my pardon.”
-
-“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
-satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of
-his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have
-principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,
-the probity, and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that
-Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has
-received; and I am sorry to say by his account as well as his sister's,
-Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has
-been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard.”
-
-“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?”
-
-“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”
-
-“This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am
-satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”
-
-“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard
-them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to
-him _conditionally_ only.”
-
-“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly;
-“but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.
-Bingley's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but
-since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt
-the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of
-both gentlemen as I did before.”
-
-She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on
-which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with
-delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr.
-Bingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence
-in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew
-to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last
-partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them,
-and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as
-to make a most important discovery.
-
-“I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now
-in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the
-gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of
-the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady
-Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have
-thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de
-Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made
-in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to
-do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total
-ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.”
-
-“You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!”
-
-“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.
-I believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to
-assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight.”
-
-Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him
-that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction
-as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that
-it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either
-side; and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
-consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her
-with the determined air of following his own inclination, and, when she
-ceased speaking, replied thus:
-
-“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in
-your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your
-understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide
-difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity,
-and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that
-I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with
-the highest rank in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of
-behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to
-follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to
-perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to
-profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant
-guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by
-education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young
-lady like yourself.” And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr.
-Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose
-astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced
-his speech with a solemn bow and though she could not hear a word of
-it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the
-words “apology,” “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed
-her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him
-with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time
-to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however,
-was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed
-abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the
-end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.
-Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
-
-“I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied with my
-reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered
-me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying
-that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be
-certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very
-handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.”
-
-As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned
-her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the
-train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to,
-made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in
-that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection
-could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of
-endeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts
-she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to
-venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to
-supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which
-placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find
-that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely,
-openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon
-be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet
-seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the
-match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but
-three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and
-then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of
-Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as
-she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger
-daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of
-other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be
-able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that
-she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was
-necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on
-such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.
-Bennet to find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She
-concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally
-fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no
-chance of it.
-
-In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's
-words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible
-whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the
-chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her
-mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.
-
-“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am
-sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say
-nothing _he_ may not like to hear.”
-
-“For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you
-to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by
-so doing!”
-
-Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would
-talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and
-blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently
-glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what
-she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was
-convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression
-of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
-steady gravity.
-
-At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who
-had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no
-likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and
-chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of
-tranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and
-she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
-preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent
-entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance,
-but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of
-exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's
-eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched her
-progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very
-ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks
-of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to
-favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another.
-Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was
-weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at
-Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to
-Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs
-of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,
-imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his
-interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,
-and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, “That will do
-extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other
-young ladies have time to exhibit.”
-
-Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and
-Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid
-her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.
-
-“If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I
-should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an
-air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly
-compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however,
-to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time
-to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The
-rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make
-such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not
-offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time
-that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care
-and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making
-as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance
-that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody,
-especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit
-him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an
-occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the
-family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had
-been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared--many
-smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his
-wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly,
-and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably
-clever, good kind of young man.
-
-To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to
-expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would
-have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or
-finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister
-that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his
-feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he
-must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should
-have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough,
-and she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the
-gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.
-
-The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by
-Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though
-he could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her
-power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with
-somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.
-He assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;
-that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to
-her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
-the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed
-her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and
-good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.
-
-She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy's further notice;
-though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite
-disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the
-probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in
-it.
-
-The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by
-a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of
-an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how
-heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her
-sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and
-were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed
-every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a
-languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the
-long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his
-sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and
-politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said
-nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.
-Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the
-rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
-silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too
-much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord,
-how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.
-
-When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly
-civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and
-addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he
-would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without
-the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure,
-and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on
-her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next
-day for a short time.
-
-Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the
-delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of
-settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly
-see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four
-months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought
-with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.
-Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the
-man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each
-was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
-
-
-
-Chapter 19
-
-
-The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
-declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as
-his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having
-no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at
-the moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the
-observances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On
-finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together,
-soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:
-
-“May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
-when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the
-course of this morning?”
-
-Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
-Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!--yes--certainly. I am sure Lizzy
-will be very happy--I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I
-want you up stairs.” And, gathering her work together, she was hastening
-away, when Elizabeth called out:
-
-“Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse
-me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am
-going away myself.”
-
-“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.” And upon
-Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to
-escape, she added: “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr.
-Collins.”
-
-Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's
-consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it
-over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to
-conceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between
-distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as
-they were gone, Mr. Collins began.
-
-“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from
-doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You
-would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little
-unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected
-mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the
-purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to
-dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as
-soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of
-my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
-subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for
-marrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design
-of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”
-
-The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away
-with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could
-not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further,
-and he continued:
-
-“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for
-every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example
-of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will
-add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought
-to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and
-recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling
-patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked
-too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I
-left Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
-arranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you
-must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose
-a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,
-useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small
-income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as
-you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the
-way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice
-and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the
-advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond
-anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be
-acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and
-respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
-intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views
-were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I
-can assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
-being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured
-father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy
-myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that
-the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy
-event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not
-be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and
-I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing
-remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the
-violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and
-shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well
-aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds
-in the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's
-decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
-therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that
-no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.”
-
-It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
-
-“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no
-answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for
-the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of
-your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to
-decline them.”
-
-“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the
-hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the
-man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their
-favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a
-third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just
-said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”
-
-“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is a rather
-extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not
-one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so
-daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second
-time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_
-happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who
-could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I
-am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the
-situation.”
-
-“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins
-very gravely--“but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
-disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of
-seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your
-modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification.”
-
-“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You
-must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment
-of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by
-refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.
-In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your
-feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
-estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may
-be considered, therefore, as finally settled.” And rising as she
-thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus
-addressed her:
-
-“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I
-shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given
-me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I
-know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on
-the first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to
-encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the
-female character.”
-
-“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with some warmth, “you puzzle me
-exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form
-of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
-to convince you of its being one.”
-
-“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your
-refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for
-believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is
-unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would
-be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections
-with the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are
-circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further
-consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no
-means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your
-portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo
-the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must
-therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me,
-I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by
-suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.”
-
-“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind
-of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would
-rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you
-again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but
-to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
-forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant
-female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking
-the truth from her heart.”
-
-“You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward
-gallantry; “and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express
-authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of
-being acceptable.”
-
-To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make
-no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if
-he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering
-encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered
-in such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could
-not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
-
-
-
-Chapter 20
-
-
-Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
-successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule
-to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open
-the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she
-entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in
-warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins
-received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then
-proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result
-of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the
-refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
-from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.
-
-This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been
-glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage
-him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it,
-and could not help saying so.
-
-“But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be
-brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very
-headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will
-_make_ her know it.”
-
-“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but if
-she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
-altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who
-naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she
-actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not
-to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of
-temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.”
-
-“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. “Lizzy is
-only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as
-good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and
-we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.”
-
-She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
-husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr. Bennet, you
-are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make
-Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you
-do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_.”
-
-Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them
-on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by
-her communication.
-
-“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had
-finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”
-
-“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,
-and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.”
-
-“And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business.”
-
-“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her
-marrying him.”
-
-“Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
-library.
-
-“Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for
-you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made
-you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth replied that it was.
-“Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?”
-
-“I have, sir.”
-
-“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your
-accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”
-
-“Yes, or I will never see her again.”
-
-“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must
-be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you
-again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again
-if you _do_.”
-
-Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning,
-but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the
-affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.
-
-“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to
-_insist_ upon her marrying him.”
-
-“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request.
-First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the
-present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the
-library to myself as soon as may be.”
-
-Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did
-Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;
-coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane
-in her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined
-interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and
-sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner
-varied, however, her determination never did.
-
-Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.
-He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin
-could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other
-way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her
-deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.
-
-While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend
-the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to
-her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such
-fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has
-made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.”
-
-Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,
-who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the
-breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on
-the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
-her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her
-family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone,
-“for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used,
-nobody feels for my poor nerves.”
-
-Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
-
-“Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned
-as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided
-she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy--if you take it
-into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,
-you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is
-to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep
-you--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told
-you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again,
-and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking
-to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking
-to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have
-no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it
-is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.”
-
-Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that
-any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the
-irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of
-them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with
-an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to
-the girls, “Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold
-your tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation
-together.”
-
-Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but
-Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,
-detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after
-herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little
-curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending
-not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected
-conversation: “Oh! Mr. Collins!”
-
-“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this point.
-Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice that marked his
-displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation
-to inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a
-young man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment;
-and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt
-of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand;
-for I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as
-when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our
-estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect
-to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to
-your daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the
-compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my
-behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my
-dismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all
-liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair.
-My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due
-consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_
-has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 21
-
-
-The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and
-Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily
-attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of her
-mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly
-expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her,
-but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke
-to her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of
-himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose
-civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and
-especially to her friend.
-
-The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill-humour or ill
-health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth
-had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did
-not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on
-Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.
-
-After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham
-were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.
-He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their
-aunt's where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was
-well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged
-that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed.
-
-“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not meet
-Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so
-many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes
-might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”
-
-She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full
-discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly
-bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with
-them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to
-her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the
-compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an
-occasion of introducing him to her father and mother.
-
-Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came
-from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little,
-hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and
-Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw
-her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected
-herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual
-cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety
-on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no
-sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane
-invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room,
-Jane, taking out the letter, said:
-
-“This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good
-deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on
-their way to town--and without any intention of coming back again. You
-shall hear what she says.”
-
-She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information
-of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,
-and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a
-house. The next was in these words: “I do not pretend to regret anything
-I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend;
-but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that
-delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may
-lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved
-correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these highflown
-expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust;
-and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw
-nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their
-absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as
-to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to
-regard it, in the enjoyment of his.
-
-“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should not be
-able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not
-hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks
-forward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful
-intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater
-satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by
-them.”
-
-“Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
-Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”
-
-“When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which
-took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we
-are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when
-Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have
-determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend
-his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are
-already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my
-dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd--but of
-that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may
-abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your
-beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the
-three of whom we shall deprive you.”
-
-“It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this
-winter.”
-
-“It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he _should_.”
-
-“Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own
-master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which
-particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.”
-
-“Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth,
-_we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think
-Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments;
-and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into
-something still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of
-her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before
-mentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the
-country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them
-unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have
-frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing;
-her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister's
-partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most
-capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to
-favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest
-Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness
-of so many?”
-
-“What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane as she
-finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that
-Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is
-perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference; and that if she
-suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to
-put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?”
-
-“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?”
-
-“Most willingly.”
-
-“You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is
-in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him
-to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he
-does not care about you.”
-
-Jane shook her head.
-
-“Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you
-together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She
-is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr.
-Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the
-case is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she
-is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion
-that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble
-in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and
-I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
-my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley
-tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
-degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on
-Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead
-of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.”
-
-“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your
-representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the
-foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving
-anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving
-herself.”
-
-“That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you
-will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all means.
-You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.”
-
-“But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
-accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry
-elsewhere?”
-
-“You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon mature
-deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is
-more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by
-all means to refuse him.”
-
-“How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling. “You must know that
-though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could
-not hesitate.”
-
-“I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider
-your situation with much compassion.”
-
-“But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
-required. A thousand things may arise in six months!”
-
-The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost
-contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's
-interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those
-wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man
-so totally independent of everyone.
-
-She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt
-on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.
-Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,
-though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that
-Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.
-
-They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the
-family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;
-but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,
-and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen
-to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After
-lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr.
-Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the
-conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had
-been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two
-full courses.
-
-
-
-Chapter 22
-
-
-The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the
-chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
-Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good
-humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.”
- Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and
-that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was
-very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth
-had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her
-from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards
-herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so
-favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost
-secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very
-soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his
-character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next
-morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw
-himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,
-from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to
-conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known
-till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost
-secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,
-he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday.
-His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas
-perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and
-instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had
-she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.
-
-In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow,
-everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as
-they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that
-was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must
-be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with
-his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must
-guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its
-continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure
-and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that
-establishment were gained.
-
-Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;
-and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
-circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom
-they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were
-exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more
-interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer
-Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided
-opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
-Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife
-should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short,
-were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes
-of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have
-done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's
-dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had
-gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were
-in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible
-nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must
-be imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly
-either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was
-the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune,
-and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
-preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at
-the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all
-the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business
-was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship
-she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder,
-and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be
-shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved
-to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins,
-when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
-passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very
-dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the
-curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct
-questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was
-at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to
-publish his prosperous love.
-
-As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the
-family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved
-for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality,
-said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever
-his engagements might allow him to visit them.
-
-“My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly
-gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and
-you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as
-possible.”
-
-They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for
-so speedy a return, immediately said:
-
-“But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my
-good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of
-offending your patroness.”
-
-“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you
-for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so
-material a step without her ladyship's concurrence.”
-
-“You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her
-displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us
-again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,
-and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.”
-
-“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
-affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive
-from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your
-regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though
-my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now
-take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my
-cousin Elizabeth.”
-
-With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally
-surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to
-understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her
-younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.
-She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was
-a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no
-means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read
-and improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very
-agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this
-kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a
-private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.
-
-The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her
-friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but
-that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from
-possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was
-consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and
-she could not help crying out:
-
-“Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte--impossible!”
-
-The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her
-story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a
-reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained
-her composure, and calmly replied:
-
-“Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible
-that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,
-because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?”
-
-But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort
-for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of
-their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her
-all imaginable happiness.
-
-“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be surprised,
-very much surprised--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry
-you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be
-satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never
-was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's
-character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
-chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on
-entering the marriage state.”
-
-Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward pause,
-they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much
-longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard.
-It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so
-unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers
-of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now
-accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was
-not exactly like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible
-that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better
-feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a
-most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself
-and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it
-was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had
-chosen.
-
-
-
-Chapter 23
-
-
-Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what
-she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to mention
-it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to
-announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,
-and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the
-houses, he unfolded the matter--to an audience not merely wondering, but
-incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness,
-protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and
-often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:
-
-“Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know
-that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”
-
-Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
-without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried
-him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the
-truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the
-most forbearing courtesy.
-
-Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant
-a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by
-mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and
-endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters
-by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she
-was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the
-happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character
-of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
-
-Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while
-Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings
-found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving
-the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins
-had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be
-happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two
-inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that
-Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she
-herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two
-points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
-console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her
-resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without
-scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William
-or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she
-could at all forgive their daughter.
-
-Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such
-as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for
-it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had
-been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and
-more foolish than his daughter!
-
-Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said
-less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;
-nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty
-and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a
-clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news
-to spread at Meryton.
-
-Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort
-on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she
-called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,
-though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been
-enough to drive happiness away.
-
-Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them
-mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that
-no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her
-disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her
-sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could
-never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious,
-as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his
-return.
-
-Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting
-the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised
-letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to
-their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a
-twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
-his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many
-rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection
-of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was
-merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready
-to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither
-he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,
-he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take
-place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable
-argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
-the happiest of men.
-
-Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of
-pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to
-complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come
-to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient
-and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house
-while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the
-most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and
-they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued
-absence.
-
-Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after
-day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the
-report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to
-Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.
-Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous
-falsehood.
-
-Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that
-his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as
-she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so
-dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its
-frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters
-and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss
-Darcy and the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for
-the strength of his attachment.
-
-As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more
-painful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of
-concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject
-was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother,
-an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her
-impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he
-did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed
-all Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
-tranquillity.
-
-Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his
-reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his
-first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;
-and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them
-from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by
-him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time
-to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.
-
-Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of
-anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour,
-and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight
-of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she
-regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see
-them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and
-whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that
-they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself
-and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She
-complained bitterly of all this to her husband.
-
-“Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte
-Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to
-make way for _her_, and live to see her take her place in it!”
-
-“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for
-better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.”
-
-This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of
-making any answer, she went on as before.
-
-“I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was
-not for the entail, I should not mind it.”
-
-“What should not you mind?”
-
-“I should not mind anything at all.”
-
-“Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
-insensibility.”
-
-“I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How
-anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own
-daughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too!
-Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?”
-
-“I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet.
-
-
-
-Chapter 24
-
-
-Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first
-sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for
-the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had
-time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left
-the country.
-
-Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest
-of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the
-writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied
-the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline
-boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict
-the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former
-letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an
-inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of
-the latter with regard to new furniture.
-
-Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,
-heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern
-for her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's
-assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no
-credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she
-had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
-could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness
-of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave
-of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness
-to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however,
-been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in
-whatever manner he thought best, but her sister's was involved in it, as
-she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short,
-on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She
-could think of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley's regard had really
-died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether
-he had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his
-observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be
-materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained
-the same, her peace equally wounded.
-
-A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to
-Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a
-longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could
-not help saying:
-
-“Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no
-idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But
-I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall
-all be as we were before.”
-
-Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said
-nothing.
-
-“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have
-no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
-acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,
-and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A
-little time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better.”
-
-With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately,
-that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it
-has done no harm to anyone but myself.”
-
-“My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your sweetness
-and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say
-to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you
-deserve.”
-
-Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back
-the praise on her sister's warm affection.
-
-“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the
-world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want
-to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not
-be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your
-privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people
-whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see
-of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms
-my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the
-little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or
-sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the
-other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is
-unaccountable!”
-
-“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will
-ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference
-of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and
-Charlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a
-large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be
-ready to believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like
-regard and esteem for our cousin.”
-
-“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else
-could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that
-Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her
-understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a
-conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as
-I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him
-cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though
-it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual,
-change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade
-yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of
-danger security for happiness.”
-
-“I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied
-Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy
-together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You
-mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat
-you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and
-saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy
-ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man
-to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but
-our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than
-it does.”
-
-“And men take care that they should.”
-
-“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea
-of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.”
-
-“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,”
- said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others
-unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,
-want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,
-will do the business.”
-
-“And do you impute it to either of those?”
-
-“Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what
-I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.”
-
-“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”
-
-“Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”
-
-“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can
-only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can
-secure it.”
-
-“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his
-happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they
-may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great
-connections, and pride.”
-
-“Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane;
-“but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have
-known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love
-her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely
-they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think
-herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very
-objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try
-to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an
-affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most
-unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
-mistaken--or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what
-I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in
-the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.”
-
-Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's
-name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
-
-Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no
-more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account
-for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with
-less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she
-did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the
-effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her
-no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at
-the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best
-comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
-
-Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he one day,
-“your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to
-being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then.
-It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction
-among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to
-be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in
-Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham
-be _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”
-
-“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
-all expect Jane's good fortune.”
-
-“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of
-that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make
-the most of it.”
-
-Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom
-which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn
-family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now
-added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already
-heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,
-was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was
-pleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they
-had known anything of the matter.
-
-Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be
-any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society
-of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for
-allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else
-Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.
-
-
-
-Chapter 25
-
-
-After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity,
-Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of
-Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his
-side, by preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason
-to hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would
-be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his
-relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair
-cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another
-letter of thanks.
-
-On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving
-her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas
-at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly
-superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield
-ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived
-by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so
-well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger
-than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant
-woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the
-two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard.
-They had frequently been staying with her in town.
-
-The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival was to
-distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was
-done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.
-Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They
-had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her
-girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was
-nothing in it.
-
-“I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr.
-Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think
-that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had it not
-been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,
-and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have
-a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just
-as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,
-sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of
-them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted
-so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves
-before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the
-greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of
-long sleeves.”
-
-Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before,
-in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her
-sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the
-conversation.
-
-When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. “It
-seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I am
-sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such
-as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl
-for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets
-her, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.”
-
-“An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it will not
-do for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often
-happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of
-independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in
-love with only a few days before.”
-
-“But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so
-doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as
-often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance,
-as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's
-love?”
-
-“I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite
-inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time
-they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he
-offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I
-spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be
-finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?”
-
-“Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor
-Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get
-over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you
-would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she
-would be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be
-of service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as
-anything.”
-
-Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded
-of her sister's ready acquiescence.
-
-“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to
-this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of
-town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go
-out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all,
-unless he really comes to see her.”
-
-“And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his
-friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such
-a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may
-perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he
-would hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its
-impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley
-never stirs without him.”
-
-“So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane
-correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.”
-
-“She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”
-
-But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this
-point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being
-withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which
-convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely
-hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that
-his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends
-successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's
-attractions.
-
-Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the
-Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she
-hoped by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,
-she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of
-seeing him.
-
-The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses,
-the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its
-engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment
-of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family
-dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always
-made part of it--of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and
-on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's
-warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them,
-from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference
-of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and
-she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left
-Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such
-an attachment.
-
-To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
-unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,
-before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very
-part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many
-acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since
-the death of Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher
-intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of
-procuring.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
-character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject
-of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute
-description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of
-praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both
-him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's
-treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's
-reputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and
-was confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam
-Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.
-
-
-
-Chapter 26
-
-
-Mrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given
-on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after
-honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:
-
-“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because
-you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking
-openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve
-yourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want
-of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against
-_him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he
-ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you
-must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all
-expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and
-good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”
-
-“My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”
-
-“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”
-
-“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
-myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I
-can prevent it.”
-
-“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”
-
-“I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with
-Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,
-the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to
-me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence
-of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion of me does
-me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My
-father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I
-should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but
-since we see every day that where there is affection, young people
-are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into
-engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many
-of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it
-would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not
-to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first
-object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,
-I will do my best.”
-
-“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very
-often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.”
-
-“As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: “very
-true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine
-that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been
-so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the
-necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my
-honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope
-you are satisfied.”
-
-Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for
-the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice
-being given on such a point, without being resented.
-
-Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted
-by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,
-his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was
-now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think
-it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that
-she “_wished_ they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day,
-and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she
-rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and
-reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her
-out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said:
-
-“I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”
-
-“_That_ you certainly shall.”
-
-“And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?”
-
-“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”
-
-“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to
-come to Hunsford.”
-
-Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the
-visit.
-
-“My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and I
-hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as
-welcome as either of them.”
-
-The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from
-the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on
-the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their
-correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that
-it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never
-address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,
-and though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the
-sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters
-were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
-curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would
-like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to
-be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte
-expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She
-wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing
-which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and
-roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most
-friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and
-Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
-for her own visit there to know the rest.
-
-Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their
-safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it
-would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.
-
-Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience
-generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or
-hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that
-her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been
-lost.
-
-“My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the
-town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.”
-
-She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.
-“I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very
-glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming
-to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached
-her. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much
-engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that
-Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was
-not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall
-see them soon here.”
-
-Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that
-accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.
-
-Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to
-persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be
-blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning
-for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the
-visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,
-the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no
-longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will
-prove what she felt.
-
-“My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her
-better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been
-entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister,
-though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I
-still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was
-as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for
-wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to
-happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not
-return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I
-receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that
-she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not
-calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was
-in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was
-perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity,
-though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out
-as she did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on
-her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting
-wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the
-cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know
-this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily
-account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to
-his sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and
-amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now,
-because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago.
-He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said
-herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she
-wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I
-cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should
-be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity
-in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought,
-and think only of what will make me happy--your affection, and the
-invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very
-soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield
-again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better
-not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts
-from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and
-Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.--Yours, etc.”
-
-This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she
-considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.
-All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not
-even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on
-every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible
-advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
-Darcy's sister, as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly
-regret what he had thrown away.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
-concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth
-had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to
-herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,
-he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to
-see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.
-Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied
-with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune
-permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
-remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself
-agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than
-in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.
-Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to
-suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was
-ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very
-sincerely wish him happy.
-
-All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the
-circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that
-I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure
-and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and
-wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial
-towards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find
-out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to
-think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My
-watchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more
-interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love
-with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.
-Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take
-his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the
-ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
-handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 27
-
-
-With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise
-diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and
-sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
-Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of
-going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan
-and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure
-as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing
-Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There
-was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
-uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change
-was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her
-a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have
-been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly,
-and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was
-to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement
-of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became
-perfect as plan could be.
-
-The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,
-and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he
-told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.
-
-The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on
-his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that
-Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the
-first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner
-of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of
-what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their
-opinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there
-was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to
-him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that,
-whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable
-and pleasing.
-
-Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her
-think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a
-good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say
-that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much
-delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but
-she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of
-the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were
-worn out, like his information.
-
-It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early
-as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's
-door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when
-they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,
-looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and
-lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,
-whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to
-wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen
-her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
-kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and
-shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.
-
-Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her
-sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to
-her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her
-spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however,
-to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the
-particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch Street, and
-repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
-herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the
-acquaintance.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and
-complimented her on bearing it so well.
-
-“But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss King? I
-should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”
-
-“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,
-between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,
-and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,
-because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get
-a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is
-mercenary.”
-
-“If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know
-what to think.”
-
-“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.”
-
-“But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death
-made her mistress of this fortune.”
-
-“No--why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_
-affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for
-making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally
-poor?”
-
-“But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her
-so soon after this event.”
-
-“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant
-decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,
-why should _we_?”
-
-“_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being
-deficient in something herself--sense or feeling.”
-
-“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
-mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.”
-
-“No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,
-to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”
-
-“Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in
-Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not
-much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow
-where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has
-neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
-worth knowing, after all.”
-
-“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”
-
-Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the
-unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in
-a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
-
-“We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner,
-“but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”
-
-No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
-acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my dear,
-dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what felicity! You
-give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What
-are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport
-we shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other
-travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We
-_will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen.
-Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our
-imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene,
-will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let _our_
-first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of
-travellers.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 28
-
-
-Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to
-Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had
-seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,
-and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.
-
-When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in
-search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.
-The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
-smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.
-
-At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the
-road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge,
-everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte
-appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which
-led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of
-the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing
-at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the
-liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with
-coming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw
-instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage;
-his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some
-minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her
-family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the
-neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they
-were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious
-formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's
-offers of refreshment.
-
-Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help
-in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its
-aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her,
-as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But
-though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to
-gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at
-her friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion.
-When Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be
-ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her
-eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but
-in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to
-admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to
-the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had
-happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the
-garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of
-which he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most
-respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance
-with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and
-owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way
-through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an
-interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out
-with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the
-fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in
-the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which
-the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the
-prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered
-the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome
-modern building, well situated on rising ground.
-
-From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows;
-but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white
-frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte
-took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,
-probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's
-help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything
-was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which
-Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be
-forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by
-Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often
-forgotten.
-
-She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It
-was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining
-in, observed:
-
-“Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine
-de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will
-be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I
-doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice
-when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she
-will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she
-honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is
-charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed
-to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I
-_should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several.”
-
-“Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,” added
-Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.”
-
-“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of
-woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”
-
-The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,
-and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed,
-Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon
-Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,
-and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it
-was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit
-would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious
-interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with
-Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.
-
-About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready
-for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in
-confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running
-up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened
-the door and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with
-agitation, cried out--
-
-“Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for
-there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make
-haste, and come down this moment.”
-
-Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,
-and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in
-quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the
-garden gate.
-
-“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs
-were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her
-daughter.”
-
-“La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not
-Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them;
-the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little
-creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?”
-
-“She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.
-Why does she not come in?”
-
-“Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours
-when Miss de Bourgh comes in.”
-
-“I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She
-looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will
-make him a very proper wife.”
-
-Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation
-with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was
-stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness
-before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that
-way.
-
-At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and
-the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two
-girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which
-Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked
-to dine at Rosings the next day.
-
-
-
-Chapter 29
-
-
-Mr. Collins's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.
-The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
-visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his
-wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity
-of doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady
-Catherine's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.
-
-“I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all surprised by
-her ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at
-Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it
-would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who
-could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there
-(an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately
-after your arrival!”
-
-“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William,
-“from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which
-my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such
-instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.”
-
-Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their
-visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what
-they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and
-so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.
-
-When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth--
-
-“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady
-Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which
-becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on
-whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion
-for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you
-for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank
-preserved.”
-
-While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different
-doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much
-objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of
-her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas
-who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her
-introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done
-to his presentation at St. James's.
-
-As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a
-mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and
-Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such
-raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but
-slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the
-house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally
-cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
-
-When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every
-moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm.
-Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady
-Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or
-miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought
-she could witness without trepidation.
-
-From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a
-rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they
-followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady
-Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship,
-with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had
-settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should
-be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those
-apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.
-
-In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was so completely
-awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage
-enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;
-and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge
-of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself
-quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her
-composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked
-features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not
-conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her
-visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by
-silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone,
-as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to
-Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she
-believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.
-
-When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment
-she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the
-daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her
-being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any
-likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her
-features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very
-little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance
-there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening
-to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before
-her eyes.
-
-After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to
-admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties,
-and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth
-looking at in the summer.
-
-The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and
-all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had
-likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her
-ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish
-nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted
-alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir
-William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law
-said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.
-But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and
-gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved
-a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth
-was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated
-between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in
-listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all
-dinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little
-Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing
-she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the
-gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.
-
-When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to
-be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any
-intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every
-subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to
-have her judgement controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic
-concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as
-to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be
-regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the
-care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was
-beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an
-occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse
-with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
-Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew
-the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel,
-pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters
-she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of
-them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they
-had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been
-her mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of
-her questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then
-observed,
-
-“Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your
-sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no
-occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought
-necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. Do you play and sing, Miss
-Bennet?”
-
-“A little.”
-
-“Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
-instrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it
-some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”
-
-“One of them does.”
-
-“Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss
-Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do
-you draw?”
-
-“No, not at all.”
-
-“What, none of you?”
-
-“Not one.”
-
-“That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother
-should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.”
-
-“My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.”
-
-“Has your governess left you?”
-
-“We never had any governess.”
-
-“No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home
-without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must
-have been quite a slave to your education.”
-
-Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been
-the case.
-
-“Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you
-must have been neglected.”
-
-“Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as
-wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to
-read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be
-idle, certainly might.”
-
-“Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had
-known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage
-one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
-and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is
-wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that
-way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces
-of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and
-it was but the other day that I recommended another young person,
-who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite
-delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's
-calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady
-Catherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your
-younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”
-
-“Yes, ma'am, all.”
-
-“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The
-younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters
-must be very young?”
-
-“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be
-much in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon
-younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and
-amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to
-marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth
-as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would
-not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”
-
-“Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly
-for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”
-
-“With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your
-ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”
-
-Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;
-and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever
-dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.
-
-“You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not
-conceal your age.”
-
-“I am not one-and-twenty.”
-
-When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables
-were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat
-down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the
-two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her
-party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was
-uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson
-expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or
-having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
-other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes
-of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins
-was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her
-for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.
-Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes
-and noble names.
-
-When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,
-the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,
-gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered
-round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were
-to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by
-the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.
-Collins's side and as many bows on Sir William's they departed. As soon
-as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin
-to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for
-Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her
-commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy
-Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise
-into his own hands.
-
-
-
-Chapter 30
-
-
-Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long
-enough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled,
-and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not
-often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his
-morning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but
-when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments,
-and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her
-cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast
-and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in
-reading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room,
-which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.
-Elizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer
-the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a
-more pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent
-reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been
-much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and
-she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
-
-From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and
-were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went
-along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,
-which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened
-almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and
-had a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever
-prevailed upon to get out.
-
-Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and
-not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;
-and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings
-to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many
-hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship,
-and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during
-these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,
-and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement
-of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she
-accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding
-out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.
-
-Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in
-commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate
-in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her
-by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to
-be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the
-village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold
-them into harmony and plenty.
-
-The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;
-and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one
-card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart
-of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living
-in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This,
-however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time
-comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with
-Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had
-often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she
-frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was
-along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was
-a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and
-where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.
-
-In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.
-Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an
-addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be
-important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was
-expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not
-many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would
-furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and
-she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him
-were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently
-destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest
-satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and
-seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by
-Miss Lucas and herself.
-
-His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking
-the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,
-in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his
-bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great
-intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his
-respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for
-Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of
-his uncle Lord ----, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when
-Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen
-them from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running
-into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:
-
-“I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would
-never have come so soon to wait upon me.”
-
-Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,
-before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
-afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,
-who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and
-address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been
-used to look in Hertfordshire--paid his compliments, with his usual
-reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her
-friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely
-curtseyed to him without saying a word.
-
-Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
-readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but
-his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and
-garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody.
-At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of
-Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual
-way, and after a moment's pause, added:
-
-“My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never
-happened to see her there?”
-
-She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see
-whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between
-the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he
-answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The
-subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went
-away.
-
-
-
-Chapter 31
-
-
-Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage,
-and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures
-of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they
-received any invitation thither--for while there were visitors in the
-house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,
-almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by
-such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
-come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little
-of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the
-Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen
-only at church.
-
-The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined
-the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received
-them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so
-acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,
-almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,
-much more than to any other person in the room.
-
-Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a
-welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had
-moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and
-talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying
-at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so
-well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much
-spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself,
-as well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
-towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a
-while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not
-scruple to call out:
-
-“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking
-of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
-
-“We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid
-a reply.
-
-“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I
-must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music.
-There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment
-of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt,
-I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health
-had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed
-delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”
-
-Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.
-
-“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady
-Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel
-if she does not practice a good deal.”
-
-“I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice.
-She practises very constantly.”
-
-“So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write
-to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often
-tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without
-constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she
-will never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs.
-Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told
-her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs.
-Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part
-of the house.”
-
-Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made
-no answer.
-
-When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
-promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He
-drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then
-talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away
-from her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte
-stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's
-countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first
-convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:
-
-“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear
-me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well. There
-is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the
-will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate
-me.”
-
-“I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could not
-really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have
-had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find
-great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are
-not your own.”
-
-Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to
-Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of
-me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky
-in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part
-of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of
-credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all
-that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me leave to
-say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
-things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”
-
-“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.
-
-“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel
-Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”
-
-“You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.
-The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,
-was at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced
-only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain
-knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a
-partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”
-
-“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly
-beyond my own party.”
-
-“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel
-Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”
-
-“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought an
-introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
-
-“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still
-addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and
-education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend
-himself to strangers?”
-
-“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to
-him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”
-
-“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy,
-“of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot
-catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their
-concerns, as I often see done.”
-
-“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the
-masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same
-force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I
-have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I will not take the
-trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as
-capable as any other woman's of superior execution.”
-
-Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your
-time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can
-think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”
-
-Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know
-what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.
-Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said
-to Darcy:
-
-“Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and
-could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion
-of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have
-been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.”
-
-Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
-cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she
-discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss
-de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have
-been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.
-
-Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing
-with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received
-them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the
-gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was
-ready to take them all home.
-
-
-
-Chapter 32
-
-
-Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane
-while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,
-when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a
-visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to
-be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her
-half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,
-when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and
-Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.
-
-He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his
-intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were
-to be within.
-
-They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made,
-seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely
-necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence
-recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and
-feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty
-departure, she observed:
-
-“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!
-It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you
-all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day
-before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?”
-
-“Perfectly so, I thank you.”
-
-She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short
-pause added:
-
-“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever
-returning to Netherfield again?”
-
-“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend
-very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and
-is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually
-increasing.”
-
-“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for
-the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we
-might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did
-not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as
-for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same
-principle.”
-
-“I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as
-soon as any eligible purchase offers.”
-
-Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
-friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the
-trouble of finding a subject to him.
-
-He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable
-house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.
-Collins first came to Hunsford.”
-
-“I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
-kindness on a more grateful object.”
-
-“Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife.”
-
-“Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one
-of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made
-him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though
-I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the
-wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a
-prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.”
-
-“It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a
-distance of her own family and friends.”
-
-“An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”
-
-“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's
-journey. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance.”
-
-“I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_
-of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins
-was settled _near_ her family.”
-
-“It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond
-the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.”
-
-As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she
-understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
-Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:
-
-“I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her
-family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many
-varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of
-travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the
-case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not
-such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my
-friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_
-the present distance.”
-
-Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_ cannot
-have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have
-been always at Longbourn.”
-
-Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of
-feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and
-glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:
-
-“Are you pleased with Kent?”
-
-A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side
-calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte
-and her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised
-them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding
-on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying
-much to anybody, went away.
-
-“What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he was
-gone. “My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never
-have called us in this familiar way.”
-
-But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely,
-even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various
-conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from
-the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable
-from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there
-was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot
-always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the
-pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
-two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither
-almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
-separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
-aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he
-had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended
-him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in
-being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her
-former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw
-there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,
-she believed he might have the best informed mind.
-
-But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult
-to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there
-ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak,
-it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice
-to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really
-animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
-Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was
-generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
-her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the effect
-of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself
-seriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at
-Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He
-certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that
-look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often
-doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it
-seemed nothing but absence of mind.
-
-She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his
-being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
-Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of
-raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her
-opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would
-vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.
-
-
-In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying
-Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he
-certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,
-to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage
-in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.
-
-
-
-Chapter 33
-
-
-More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,
-unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the
-mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to
-prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that
-it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time,
-therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like
-wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was
-not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away,
-but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He
-never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking
-or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third
-rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about
-her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her
-opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of
-Rosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to
-expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying
-_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel
-Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must
-mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed
-her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the
-pales opposite the Parsonage.
-
-She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane's last letter,
-and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in
-spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw
-on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the
-letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:
-
-“I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”
-
-“I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally
-do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are
-you going much farther?”
-
-“No, I should have turned in a moment.”
-
-And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
-together.
-
-“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.
-
-“Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He
-arranges the business just as he pleases.”
-
-“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
-pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems
-more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.”
-
-“He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
-“But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it
-than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
-feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
-dependence.”
-
-“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of
-either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and
-dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going
-wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?”
-
-“These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have
-experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
-weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where
-they like.”
-
-“Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
-do.”
-
-“Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many
-in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to
-money.”
-
-“Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at the
-idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And pray, what
-is the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is
-very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.”
-
-He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt
-a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,
-she soon afterwards said:
-
-“I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
-having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
-lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well
-for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he
-likes with her.”
-
-“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he must
-divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.”
-
-“Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
-charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a
-little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she
-may like to have her own way.”
-
-As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner
-in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to
-give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other
-got pretty near the truth. She directly replied:
-
-“You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare
-say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a
-very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and
-Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.”
-
-“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man--he
-is a great friend of Darcy's.”
-
-“Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
-Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”
-
-“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in
-those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
-our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
-him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
-Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.”
-
-“What is it you mean?”
-
-“It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known,
-because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an
-unpleasant thing.”
-
-“You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”
-
-“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
-Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself
-on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most
-imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other
-particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing
-him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
-knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.”
-
-“Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”
-
-“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
-lady.”
-
-“And what arts did he use to separate them?”
-
-“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He
-only told me what I have now told you.”
-
-Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
-indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
-was so thoughtful.
-
-“I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your
-cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?”
-
-“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”
-
-“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his
-friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to
-determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy.
-But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the
-particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
-that there was much affection in the case.”
-
-“That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is a
-lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.”
-
-This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture
-of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and
-therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent
-matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room,
-as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption
-of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
-people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There
-could not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have
-such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures
-taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had
-always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement
-of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, _he_ was
-the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had
-suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while
-every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the
-world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.
-
-“There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel
-Fitzwilliam's words; and those strong objections probably were, her
-having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in
-business in London.
-
-“To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of
-objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!--her understanding
-excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither
-could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some
-peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and
-respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought of
-her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow
-that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose
-pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of
-importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense;
-and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed
-by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr.
-Bingley for his sister.
-
-The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
-headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to
-her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
-cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
-seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much
-as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins
-could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather
-displeased by her staying at home.
-
-
-
-Chapter 34
-
-
-When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself
-as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
-examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
-being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
-revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
-But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
-cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which,
-proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly
-disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
-noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
-attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
-shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her
-a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation
-to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the
-next--and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should
-herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of
-her spirits, by all that affection could do.
-
-She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that
-his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
-that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not
-mean to be unhappy about him.
-
-While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
-door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
-being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
-the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her.
-But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
-affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
-room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her
-health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
-She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
-then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
-said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her
-in an agitated manner, and thus began:
-
-“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
-repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
-you.”
-
-Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
-doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement;
-and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her,
-immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides
-those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the
-subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of
-its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which had always
-opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to
-the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his
-suit.
-
-In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
-the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did
-not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
-receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she
-lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
-answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
-representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite
-of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
-expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of
-his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt
-of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but
-his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could
-only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her
-cheeks, and she said:
-
-“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
-express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
-unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should
-be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I
-cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
-bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to
-anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be
-of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented
-the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in
-overcoming it after this explanation.”
-
-Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed
-on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than
-surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance
-of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the
-appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed
-himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings
-dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:
-
-“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!
-I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
-civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.”
-
-“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a desire
-of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
-against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
-Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
-other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against
-you--had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you
-think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has
-been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most
-beloved sister?”
-
-As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
-was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
-continued:
-
-“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
-excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
-you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means
-of dividing them from each other--of exposing one to the censure of the
-world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for
-disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
-kind.”
-
-She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening
-with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.
-He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.
-
-“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.
-
-With assumed tranquillity he then replied: “I have no wish of denying
-that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your
-sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been
-kinder than towards myself.”
-
-Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,
-but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.
-
-“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike
-is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was
-decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received
-many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to
-say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
-or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?”
-
-“You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,” said Darcy,
-in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
-
-“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
-interest in him?”
-
-“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his misfortunes
-have been great indeed.”
-
-“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have reduced
-him to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You have
-withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for
-him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence
-which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!
-and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and
-ridicule.”
-
-“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
-“is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me!
-I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
-calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,” added he, stopping in
-his walk, and turning towards her, “these offenses might have been
-overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
-scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
-bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater
-policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of
-my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
-reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
-Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and
-just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
-connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose
-condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”
-
-Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
-the utmost to speak with composure when she said:
-
-“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
-declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern
-which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more
-gentlemanlike manner.”
-
-She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:
-
-“You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that
-would have tempted me to accept it.”
-
-Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
-expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:
-
-“From the very beginning--from the first moment, I may almost say--of
-my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest
-belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of
-the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of
-disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a
-dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
-last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
-
-“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
-feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
-Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
-wishes for your health and happiness.”
-
-And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
-the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
-
-The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how
-to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for
-half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed,
-was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
-marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for
-so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of
-all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying
-her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his
-own case--was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired
-unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable
-pride--his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to
-Jane--his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could
-not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr.
-Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon
-overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for
-a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the
-sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to
-encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.
-
-
-
-Chapter 35
-
-
-Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations
-which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the
-surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything
-else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after
-breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
-directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's
-sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,
-she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The
-park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one
-of the gates into the ground.
-
-After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
-tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and
-look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had
-made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the
-verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,
-when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which
-edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr.
-Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now
-near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced
-her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though
-in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the
-gate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter,
-which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure,
-“I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.
-Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a
-slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.
-
-With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,
-Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder,
-perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written
-quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise
-full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated
-from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--
-
-“Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension
-of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those
-offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any
-intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes
-which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the
-effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion,
-should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written
-and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand
-your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I
-demand it of your justice.
-
-“Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
-magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was,
-that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley
-from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various
-claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate
-prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and
-wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged
-favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other
-dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect
-its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young
-persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could
-bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last
-night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope
-to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions
-and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which
-is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which
-may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity
-must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.
-
-“I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
-others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young
-woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance
-at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious
-attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I
-had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir
-William Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to
-your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage.
-He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could
-be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour
-attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss
-Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also
-watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever,
-but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced
-from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions
-with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
-sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been
-in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter
-probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict
-pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not
-scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and
-air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction
-that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be
-easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is
-certain--but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions
-are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe
-her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial
-conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the
-marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have
-the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of
-connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But
-there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still
-existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had
-myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before
-me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your
-mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that
-total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by
-herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your
-father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern
-for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this
-representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to
-have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure,
-is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than
-it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say
-farther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties
-was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led
-me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy
-connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as
-you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.
-
-“The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness
-had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was
-soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in
-detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in
-London. We accordingly went--and there I readily engaged in the office
-of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I
-described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance
-might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose
-that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been
-seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your
-sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his
-affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great
-natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his
-own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was
-no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into
-Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the
-work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There
-is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not
-reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the
-measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in
-town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her
-brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without
-ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me
-enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this
-concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it
-was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no
-other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it
-was unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to
-you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn
-them.
-
-“With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured
-Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his
-connection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I
-am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more
-than one witness of undoubted veracity.
-
-“Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many
-years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good
-conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to
-be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his
-kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at
-school, and afterwards at Cambridge--most important assistance, as his
-own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have
-been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only
-fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he
-had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be
-his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is
-many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different
-manner. The vicious propensities--the want of principle, which he was
-careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape
-the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself,
-and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr.
-Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree
-you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham
-has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from
-unfolding his real character--it adds even another motive.
-
-“My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to
-Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly
-recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner
-that his profession might allow--and if he took orders, desired that a
-valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There
-was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long
-survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham
-wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders,
-he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more
-immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he
-could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying
-law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
-be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed
-him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to
-his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the
-business was therefore soon settled--he resigned all claim to assistance
-in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to
-receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection
-between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him
-to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly
-lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free
-from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.
-For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
-incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to
-me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured
-me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He
-had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely
-resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in
-question--of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was
-well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not
-have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame
-me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every
-repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of
-his circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
-to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every
-appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But
-last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
-
-“I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself,
-and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold
-to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your
-secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to
-the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself.
-About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed
-for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided
-over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by
-design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him
-and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and
-by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
-whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to
-her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and
-to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her
-excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed
-the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two
-before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the
-idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
-a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and
-how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented
-any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place
-immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr.
-Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which
-is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of
-revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have
-been complete indeed.
-
-“This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have
-been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as
-false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr.
-Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he
-had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered
-at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either,
-detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in
-your inclination.
-
-“You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but
-I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to
-be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more
-particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our
-near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of
-the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
-with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_
-should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by
-the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be
-the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some
-opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the
-morning. I will only add, God bless you.
-
-“FITZWILLIAM DARCY”
-
-
-
-Chapter 36
-
-
-If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
-contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of
-its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly
-she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.
-Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did
-she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;
-and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation
-to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
-prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what
-had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly
-left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the
-next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of
-the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she
-instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst
-objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing
-him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied
-her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and
-insolence.
-
-But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when
-she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which,
-if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which
-bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her
-feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
-Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished
-to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false!
-This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”--and when she had
-gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the
-last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
-regard it, that she would never look in it again.
-
-In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
-nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter
-was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she
-again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and
-commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.
-The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what
-he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though
-she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own
-words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the
-will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living
-was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was
-impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the
-other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did
-not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the
-particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions
-to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three
-thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down
-the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
-impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with
-little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read
-on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had
-believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to
-render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a
-turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.
-
-The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at
-Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
-bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his
-entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the
-persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
-had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life
-nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As
-to his real character, had information been in her power, she had
-never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had
-established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried
-to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of
-integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of
-Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those
-casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy
-had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But
-no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before
-her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more
-substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and
-the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After
-pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to
-read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss
-Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
-Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was
-referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
-himself--from whom she had previously received the information of his
-near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
-reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to
-him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and
-at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never
-have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
-cousin's corroboration.
-
-She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation
-between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's.
-Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_
-struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and
-wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
-himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions
-with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear
-of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
-_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball
-the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield
-family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but
-herself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed;
-that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's
-character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would
-always prevent his exposing the son.
-
-How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned!
-His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
-hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer
-the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.
-His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had
-either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying
-his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most
-incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
-and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not
-but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago
-asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as
-were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their
-acquaintance--an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much
-together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything
-that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him
-of irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was
-esteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a
-brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his
-sister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling; that had his
-actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
-everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and
-that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man
-as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.
-
-She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham
-could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced,
-absurd.
-
-“How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself
-on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have
-often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified
-my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this
-discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could
-not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my
-folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect
-of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
-prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were
-concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”
-
-From herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line
-which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation
-_there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely
-different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that
-credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to
-give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her
-sister's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's
-opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his
-description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were
-little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air
-and manner not often united with great sensibility.
-
-When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
-mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense
-of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly
-for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as
-having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
-disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind
-than on hers.
-
-The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed,
-but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been
-self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered
-that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest
-relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt
-by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she
-had ever known before.
-
-After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
-variety of thought--re-considering events, determining probabilities,
-and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and
-so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made
-her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish
-of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such
-reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.
-
-She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
-called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take
-leave--but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least
-an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her
-till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern
-in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no
-longer an object; she could think only of her letter.
-
-
-
-Chapter 37
-
-
-The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having
-been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was
-able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very
-good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the
-melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then
-hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return
-brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship,
-importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of
-having them all to dine with her.
-
-Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had
-she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as
-her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her
-ladyship's indignation would have been. “What would she have said? how
-would she have behaved?” were questions with which she amused herself.
-
-Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. “I assure
-you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe no one
-feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly
-attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to
-me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The
-dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy
-seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His
-attachment to Rosings certainly increases.”
-
-Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which
-were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.
-
-Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of
-spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that
-she did not like to go home again so soon, she added:
-
-“But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that
-you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your
-company, I am sure.”
-
-“I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied
-Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town
-next Saturday.”
-
-“Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected
-you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There
-can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly
-spare you for another fortnight.”
-
-“But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.”
-
-“Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters
-are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay
-another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as
-far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as
-Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room
-for one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I
-should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.”
-
-“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our
-original plan.”
-
-Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant
-with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea
-of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper.
-You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in
-the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly
-guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my
-niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her
-having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of
-Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with
-propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those
-things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I
-am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be
-discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.”
-
-“My uncle is to send a servant for us.”
-
-“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you
-have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses?
-Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be
-attended to.”
-
-Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,
-and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,
-which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so
-occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be
-reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it
-as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary
-walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant
-recollections.
-
-Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She
-studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at
-times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,
-she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly
-she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against
-herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.
-His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she
-could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal,
-or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past
-behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in
-the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin.
-They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at
-them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his
-youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right
-herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently
-united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine
-and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,
-what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
-irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always
-affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would
-scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While
-there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while
-Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there
-forever.
-
-Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy's
-explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion,
-heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved
-to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any
-could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How
-grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every
-respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had
-been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!
-
-When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham's
-character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had
-seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it
-almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
-
-Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of
-her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent
-there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of
-their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,
-and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right
-way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the
-work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.
-
-When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them
-a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;
-and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her
-hand to both.
-
-
-
-Chapter 38
-
-
-On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few
-minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of
-paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.
-
-“I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet
-expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very
-certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for
-it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We
-know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain
-manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we
-see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
-yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,
-and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending
-your time unpleasantly.”
-
-Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She
-had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with
-Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_
-feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling
-solemnity replied:
-
-“It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not
-disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately
-having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and,
-from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the
-humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford
-visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to
-Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage
-and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You
-see how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge
-that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should
-not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are
-sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”
-
-Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was
-obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility
-and truth in a few short sentences.
-
-“You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
-Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will
-be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you
-have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear
-that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be
-as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,
-that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in
-marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of
-thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of
-character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each
-other.”
-
-Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was
-the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed
-and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to
-have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang.
-Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she
-had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that
-her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her
-home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their
-dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.
-
-At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels
-placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate
-parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by
-Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her
-with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks
-for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
-compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her
-in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed,
-when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
-hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.
-
-“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects
-delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you
-while you have been here.”
-
-Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and
-the carriage drove off.
-
-“Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, “it seems
-but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have
-happened!”
-
-“A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh.
-
-“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!
-How much I shall have to tell!”
-
-Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to conceal!”
-
-Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and
-within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner's
-house, where they were to remain a few days.
-
-Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her
-spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her
-aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at
-Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.
-
-It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for
-Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know
-that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish
-Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own
-vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation
-to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision
-in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate;
-and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried
-into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister
-further.
-
-
-
-Chapter 39
-
-
-It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
-together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire;
-and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage
-was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's
-punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up stairs.
-These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed
-in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and
-dressing a salad and cucumber.
-
-After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set
-out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,
-“Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?”
-
-“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend us the
-money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then, showing
-her purchases--“Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think
-it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall
-pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
-better.”
-
-And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
-unconcern, “Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and
-when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I
-think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what
-one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they
-are going in a fortnight.”
-
-“Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.
-
-“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to
-take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme;
-and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to
-go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall
-have!”
-
-“Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “_that_ would be a delightful scheme indeed,
-and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole
-campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor
-regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!”
-
-“Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down at
-table. “What do you think? It is excellent news--capital news--and about
-a certain person we all like!”
-
-Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need
-not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:
-
-“Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the
-waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse
-things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad
-he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for
-my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not?
-There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She
-is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”
-
-“And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection
-imprudent as to fortune.”
-
-“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”
-
-“But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane.
-
-“I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared
-three straws about her--who could about such a nasty little freckled
-thing?”
-
-Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
-coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_
-was little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!
-
-As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
-ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their
-boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and
-Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.
-
-“How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I bought my
-bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now
-let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way
-home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all
-since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any
-flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband
-before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.
-She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not
-being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to
-get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.
-Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
-how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would
-chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece
-of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend
-the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the
-evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so
-she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen
-was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
-dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a
-lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.
-Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow
-one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,
-and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they
-did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
-Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect
-something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.”
-
-With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did
-Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her
-companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she
-could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.
-
-Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane
-in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet
-say voluntarily to Elizabeth:
-
-“I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”
-
-Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases
-came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that
-occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and
-poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one
-hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat
-some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger
-Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's,
-was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who
-would hear her.
-
-“Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
-As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there
-was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty
-had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved
-very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold
-luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated
-you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never
-should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then
-we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that
-anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”
-
-To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister,
-to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the
-generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for
-_me_--I should infinitely prefer a book.”
-
-But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to
-anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.
-
-In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk
-to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily
-opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could
-not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers.
-There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr.
-Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The
-comfort to _her_ of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond
-expression. In a fortnight they were to go--and once gone, she hoped
-there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.
-
-She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton
-scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under
-frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her
-father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were
-at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often
-disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.
-
-
-
-Chapter 40
-
-
-Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could
-no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every
-particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be
-surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene
-between Mr. Darcy and herself.
-
-Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
-partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
-natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
-sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
-little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
-unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.
-
-“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly
-ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
-disappointment!”
-
-“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
-other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.
-You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”
-
-“Blame you! Oh, no.”
-
-“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”
-
-“No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”
-
-“But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very next
-day.”
-
-She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
-as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!
-who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that
-so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here
-collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though
-grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
-Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and
-seek to clear the one without involving the other.
-
-“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both
-of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
-with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
-enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
-about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's;
-but you shall do as you choose.”
-
-It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.
-
-“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so
-very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only
-consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the
-knowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing
-of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it
-so.”
-
-“Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so
-full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am
-growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion
-makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will
-be as light as a feather.”
-
-“Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his
-countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!”
-
-“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
-two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
-appearance of it.”
-
-“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you
-used to do.”
-
-“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike
-to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an
-opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
-abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing
-at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”
-
-“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
-the matter as you do now.”
-
-“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And
-with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say
-that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I
-had! Oh! how I wanted you!”
-
-“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
-in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
-undeserved.”
-
-“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most
-natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There
-is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
-ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand
-Wickham's character.”
-
-Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no
-occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?”
-
-“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me
-to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular
-relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to
-myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his
-conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy
-is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in
-Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal
-to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to
-anyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out,
-and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At
-present I will say nothing about it.”
-
-“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
-ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
-re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.”
-
-The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had
-got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,
-and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish
-to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,
-of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other
-half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she
-had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one
-could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
-understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off
-this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if that very
-improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to
-tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The
-liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!”
-
-She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
-state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
-very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself
-in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment,
-and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first
-attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance,
-and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her
-attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the
-indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own
-health and their tranquillity.
-
-“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what is your opinion _now_ of
-this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak
-of it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day. But
-I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is
-a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there's the least
-chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of
-his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of
-everybody, too, who is likely to know.”
-
-“I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”
-
-“Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I
-shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I
-would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will
-die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done.”
-
-But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,
-she made no answer.
-
-“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the
-Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope
-it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
-excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her
-mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
-housekeeping, I dare say.”
-
-“No, nothing at all.”
-
-“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes, _they_ will
-take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
-for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
-talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as
-quite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.”
-
-“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”
-
-“No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they
-often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
-estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be
-ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 41
-
-
-The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was
-the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies
-in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost
-universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,
-and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very
-frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and
-Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
-hard-heartedness in any of the family.
-
-“Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they
-often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so,
-Lizzy?”
-
-Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what
-she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years
-ago.
-
-“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel
-Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.”
-
-“I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia.
-
-“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.
-
-“Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
-disagreeable.”
-
-“A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”
-
-“And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,”
- added Kitty.
-
-Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
-Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
-of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
-objections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his
-interference in the views of his friend.
-
-But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
-received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of
-the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a
-very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
-and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
-their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.
-
-The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
-the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
-to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia
-flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's
-congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
-whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate
-in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
-
-“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,”
- said she, “Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much
-right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.”
-
-In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make
-her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
-exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
-considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense
-for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it
-known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her
-go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general
-behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of
-such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
-imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
-be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:
-
-“Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public
-place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so
-little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
-circumstances.”
-
-“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to
-us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and
-imprudent manner--nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you
-would judge differently in the affair.”
-
-“Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened away
-some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
-squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity
-are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who
-have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly.”
-
-“Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not
-of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
-importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the
-wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
-Lydia's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
-father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
-of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
-her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
-will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
-that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the
-worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond
-youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness
-of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal
-contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger
-Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
-ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you
-suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever
-they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the
-disgrace?”
-
-Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and
-affectionately taking her hand said in reply:
-
-“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known
-you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less
-advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly
-sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to
-Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
-keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an
-object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance
-even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find
-women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being
-there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
-many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest
-of her life.”
-
-With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
-continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not
-in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on
-them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret
-over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her
-disposition.
-
-Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her
-father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their
-united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
-every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye
-of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers.
-She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them
-at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp--its tents
-stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
-and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she
-saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
-officers at once.
-
-Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such
-realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have
-been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same.
-Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy
-conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.
-
-But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures
-continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's leaving
-home.
-
-Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been
-frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty
-well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even
-learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted
-her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
-behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,
-for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which
-had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after
-what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in
-finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous
-gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
-reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever
-cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified,
-and her preference secured at any time by their renewal.
-
-On the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined,
-with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
-disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some
-inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she
-mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three
-weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.
-
-He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
-recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen
-him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man,
-asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.
-With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:
-
-“How long did you say he was at Rosings?”
-
-“Nearly three weeks.”
-
-“And you saw him frequently?”
-
-“Yes, almost every day.”
-
-“His manners are very different from his cousin's.”
-
-“Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.”
-
-“Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. “And
-pray, may I ask?--” But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is
-it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility
-to his ordinary style?--for I dare not hope,” he continued in a lower
-and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.”
-
-“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much
-what he ever was.”
-
-While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
-rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
-something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive
-and anxious attention, while she added:
-
-“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that
-his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from
-knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.”
-
-Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated
-look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his
-embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of
-accents:
-
-“You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
-comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
-even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
-may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only
-deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only
-fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been
-alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good
-opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always
-operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be
-imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I
-am certain he has very much at heart.”
-
-Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a
-slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on
-the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
-him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his
-side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish
-Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
-mutual desire of never meeting again.
-
-When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,
-from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation
-between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
-only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
-Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,
-and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the
-opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible--advice which
-there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in
-the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more
-gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.
-
-
-
-Chapter 42
-
-
-Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could
-not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic
-comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
-of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a
-woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in
-their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,
-esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views
-of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of
-a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own
-imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often
-console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of
-the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal
-enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as
-her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not
-the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his
-wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
-philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.
-
-Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her
-father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but
-respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of
-herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to
-banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
-and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own
-children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so
-strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so
-unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising
-from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used,
-might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even
-if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.
-
-When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she found little
-other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties
-abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and
-sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around
-them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
-might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers
-of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition
-greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all
-her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a
-watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what
-has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had been
-looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the
-satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to
-name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity--to have
-some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by
-again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the
-present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes
-was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
-for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother
-and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the
-scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.
-
-“But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to wish for.
-Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.
-But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my
-sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of
-pleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can
-never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by
-the defence of some little peculiar vexation.”
-
-When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely
-to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and
-always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that
-they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers
-had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as
-made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
-she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
-violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to
-the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still
-less to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were
-much too full of lines under the words to be made public.
-
-After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good
-humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore
-a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came
-back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet
-was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of
-June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without
-tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by
-the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to
-mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious
-arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in
-Meryton.
-
-The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast
-approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter
-arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and
-curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from
-setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
-within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so
-far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with
-the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up
-the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the
-present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that
-county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three
-weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The
-town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where
-they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of
-her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
-Dovedale, or the Peak.
-
-Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing
-the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it
-was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;
-and all was soon right again.
-
-With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was
-impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its
-owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his county with impunity,
-and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.”
-
-The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away
-before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr.
-and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
-Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
-younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their
-cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and
-sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every
-way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.
-
-The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the
-next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.
-One enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness of companions;
-a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
-inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection
-and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were
-disappointments abroad.
-
-It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,
-nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither
-lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are
-sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present
-concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's
-former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance
-still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the
-principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton,
-Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not
-in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In
-talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed
-an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
-willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
-
-“My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard
-so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many of your
-acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you
-know.”
-
-Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
-Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She
-must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so
-many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house
-richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it myself; but
-the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the
-country.”
-
-Elizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The
-possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
-occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and
-thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such
-a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved
-that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the
-absence of the family were unfavourably answered.
-
-Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
-whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its
-proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for
-the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her
-alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of
-curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the
-next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and
-with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike
-to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
-
-
-
-Chapter 43
-
-
-Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
-Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
-in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
-
-The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
-entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
-a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
-
-Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
-every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
-half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
-eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
-Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which
-the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone
-building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of
-high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was
-swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks
-were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She
-had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
-beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
-all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that
-to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
-
-They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
-while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of
-meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
-mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
-hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to
-wonder at her being where she was.
-
-The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less
-fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
-followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned
-room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
-to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which
-they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance,
-was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and
-she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its
-banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it,
-with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking
-different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be
-seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to
-the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of
-his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
-splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
-
-“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With
-these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
-viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
-welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,”--recollecting
-herself--“that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to
-me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.”
-
-This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something very like
-regret.
-
-She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really
-absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question
-was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs.
-Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with
-a large party of friends.” How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
-journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
-
-Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the
-likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
-over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
-The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young
-gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought
-up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the army,” she added;
-“but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”
-
-Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
-return it.
-
-“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,
-“is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
-other--about eight years ago.”
-
-“I have heard much of your master's fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner,
-looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
-us whether it is like or not.”
-
-Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
-intimation of her knowing her master.
-
-“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”
-
-Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”
-
-“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?”
-
-“Yes, very handsome.”
-
-“I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you
-will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
-master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to
-be then. He was very fond of them.”
-
-This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.
-
-Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
-when she was only eight years old.
-
-“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs. Gardiner.
-
-“Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
-accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is
-a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she
-comes here to-morrow with him.”
-
-Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her
-communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
-by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
-master and his sister.
-
-“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”
-
-“Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
-time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.”
-
-“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”
-
-“If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”
-
-“Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is
-good enough for him.”
-
-Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, “It is
-very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.”
-
-“I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,”
- replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she
-listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have
-never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever
-since he was four years old.”
-
-This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
-ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.
-Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was
-grateful to her uncle for saying:
-
-“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
-having such a master.”
-
-“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could
-not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
-good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and
-he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the
-world.”
-
-Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she.
-
-“His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
-
-“Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just
-as affable to the poor.”
-
-Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
-Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects
-of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the
-furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
-prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her
-master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his
-many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
-
-“He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that ever
-lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but
-themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give
-him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw
-anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away
-like other young men.”
-
-“In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought Elizabeth.
-
-“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not
-quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”
-
-“Perhaps we might be deceived.”
-
-“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”
-
-On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty
-sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than
-the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to
-give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when
-last at Pemberley.
-
-“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
-one of the windows.
-
-Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter
-the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever
-can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There
-is nothing he would not do for her.”
-
-The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were
-all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings;
-but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
-visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
-Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
-also more intelligible.
-
-In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
-little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of
-the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested
-her--and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a
-smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he
-looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest
-contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.
-Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's
-lifetime.
-
-There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
-sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of
-their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
-was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
-of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
-considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--how
-much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!--how much of
-good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought
-forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
-stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his
-eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of
-gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and
-softened its impropriety of expression.
-
-When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
-they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were
-consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.
-
-As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back
-to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former
-was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
-suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
-
-They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
-appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
-instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest
-blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from
-surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
-and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least
-of perfect civility.
-
-She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,
-received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
-overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture
-they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two
-that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on
-beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little
-aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
-scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer
-she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the
-alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that
-he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
-impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few
-minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in
-her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent
-had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as
-to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in
-Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
-distraction of his thoughts.
-
-At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few
-moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took
-leave.
-
-The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but
-Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings,
-followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her
-coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the
-world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light
-might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely
-thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he
-thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes
-sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination;
-for it was plain that he was that moment arrived--that moment alighted
-from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over
-the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly
-altered--what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was
-amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family!
-Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never
-had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What
-a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put
-his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account
-for it.
-
-They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and
-every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
-reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
-before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
-mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and
-seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she
-distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that
-one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
-was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind--in
-what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything,
-she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he
-felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was
-not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in
-seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
-composure.
-
-At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind
-aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
-
-They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
-ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of
-the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the
-valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading
-many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish
-of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk.
-With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round.
-It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which
-brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods,
-to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed
-it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene;
-it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the
-valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream,
-and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it.
-Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the
-bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
-who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only
-of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
-therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
-on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
-progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
-taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
-occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the
-man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this
-slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment
-was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy
-approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here
-less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before
-they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared
-for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with
-calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,
-she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea
-lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the
-turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw
-that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
-politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;
-but she had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when
-some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
-Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed,
-and she said no more.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
-her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
-This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared;
-and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the
-acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had
-revolted in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought
-she, “when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of
-fashion.”
-
-The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
-relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
-it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
-could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the
-connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and
-so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
-conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
-could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had
-some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
-attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
-expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
-his taste, or his good manners.
-
-The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy
-invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he
-chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time
-to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of
-the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
-walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder.
-Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment
-must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and
-continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what can
-it proceed? It cannot be for _me_--it cannot be for _my_ sake that his
-manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a
-change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me.”
-
-After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
-gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to
-the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious
-water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated
-in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found
-Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
-her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on
-together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him
-to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
-place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been
-very unexpected--“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that
-you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we
-left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected
-in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that
-business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
-before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They
-will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some
-who will claim an acquaintance with you--Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”
-
-Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
-driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last
-mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, _his_
-mind was not very differently engaged.
-
-“There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a
-pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow
-me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
-during your stay at Lambton?”
-
-The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great
-for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt
-that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her
-must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was
-satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
-him think really ill of her.
-
-They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth
-was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and
-pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of
-the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had
-reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a
-mile behind.
-
-He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not
-tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might
-have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
-there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected
-that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale
-with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her
-patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was
-over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go
-into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and
-they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the
-ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him
-walking slowly towards the house.
-
-The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
-pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.
-“He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle.
-
-“There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her
-aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
-say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I
-have seen nothing of it.”
-
-“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more
-than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
-attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.”
-
-“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham;
-or, rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features
-are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so
-disagreeable?”
-
-Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
-him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never
-seen him so pleasant as this morning.
-
-“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied
-her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him
-at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off
-his grounds.”
-
-Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but
-said nothing.
-
-“From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really
-should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
-anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.
-On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he
-speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance that would
-not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the
-good lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character!
-I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal
-master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every
-virtue.”
-
-Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
-his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in
-as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from
-his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
-construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
-Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
-confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
-transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming
-her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
-approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to
-the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
-to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of
-anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk they
-had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
-acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of a
-intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.
-
-The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
-much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing
-but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and, above
-all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.
-
-
-
-Chapter 44
-
-
-Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
-her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently
-resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.
-But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their
-arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the
-place with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn
-to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a
-carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in
-a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing
-the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her
-surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she
-expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment
-of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many
-of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on
-the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that
-there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a
-quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these
-newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of
-Elizabeth's feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite
-amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet,
-she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much
-in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally
-suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.
-
-She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked
-up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of
-inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.
-
-Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction
-took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new
-acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her
-being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;
-but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was
-only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from
-her beyond a monosyllable.
-
-Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though
-little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance
-womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there
-was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly
-unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as
-acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much
-relieved by discerning such different feelings.
-
-They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley
-was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her
-satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick
-step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All
-Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but had she still
-felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected
-cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He
-inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked
-and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
-
-To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage
-than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before
-them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just
-arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards
-each with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from
-those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew
-what it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little
-in doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was
-evident enough.
-
-Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the
-feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and
-to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she
-feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she
-endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley
-was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.
-
-In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh!
-how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in
-a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on
-former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion
-that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But,
-though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his
-behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look
-appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred
-between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point
-she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred
-ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a
-recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying
-more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed
-to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone
-which had something of real regret, that it “was a very long time since
-he had had the pleasure of seeing her;” and, before she could reply,
-he added, “It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of
-November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield.”
-
-Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards
-took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether
-_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,
-nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which
-gave them meaning.
-
-It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself;
-but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
-complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed
-from _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that
-the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however
-temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When
-she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion
-of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
-disgrace--when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the
-very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last
-lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage--the difference, the change was
-so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly
-restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company
-of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations
-at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
-self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance
-could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the
-acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw
-down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and
-Rosings.
-
-Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose
-to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing
-their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner
-at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a
-diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
-readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing
-how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
-acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however,
-that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than
-any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
-society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for
-her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.
-
-Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth
-again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to
-make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all
-this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on
-this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their
-visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some
-satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been
-little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her
-uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their
-favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
-
-But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was
-not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was
-much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;
-it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to
-interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.
-
-Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far
-as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could
-not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character
-from their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference
-to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known
-would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
-however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible
-that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four
-years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be
-hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of
-their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had
-nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not,
-it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town
-where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he
-was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.
-
-With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held
-there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the
-son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known
-fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind
-him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
-
-As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than
-the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not
-long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion;
-and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She
-certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she
-had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,
-that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his
-valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
-time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened
-into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in
-his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,
-which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,
-there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked.
-It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her,
-but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and
-acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations
-accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid
-her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most
-eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display
-of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only
-were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent
-on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much
-pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude--for to love, ardent
-love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a
-sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be
-exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him,
-she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how
-far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would
-be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her
-fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of
-his addresses.
-
-It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that
-such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the
-very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a
-late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled,
-by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that
-it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following
-morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when
-she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
-
-Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been
-renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting
-some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.
-
-
-
-Chapter 45
-
-
-Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
-originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her
-appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how
-much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.
-
-On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,
-whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows
-opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
-hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts
-which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
-
-In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there
-with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in
-London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with
-all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear
-of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior
-the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece,
-however, did her justice, and pitied her.
-
-By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and,
-on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,
-succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
-genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
-of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the
-others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
-Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she
-wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
-short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.
-
-Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,
-and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
-calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her
-from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an
-inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity
-of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every
-moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she
-feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether
-she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After
-sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss
-Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold
-inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal
-indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.
-
-The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
-entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the
-finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many
-a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been
-given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole
-party--for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the
-beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected
-them round the table.
-
-While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether
-she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the
-feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but
-a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
-regret that he came.
-
-He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other
-gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him
-only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to
-Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely
-resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more
-necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she
-saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,
-and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour
-when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive
-curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the
-smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
-objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions
-to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's
-entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he
-was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded
-as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
-Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the
-first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:
-
-“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire Militia removed from Meryton?
-They must be a great loss to _your_ family.”
-
-In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth
-instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the
-various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;
-but exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
-presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While
-she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened
-complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with
-confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what
-pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would
-have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
-Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed
-her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in
-Darcy's opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies
-and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected
-with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's
-meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy
-was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections
-her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very
-wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
-hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without
-meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
-Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern
-for the welfare of his friend.
-
-Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and
-as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
-Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
-to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
-recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
-had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have
-fixed them on her more and more cheerfully.
-
-Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above
-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss
-Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person,
-behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's
-recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not
-err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana
-without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When
-Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to
-him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.
-
-“How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she
-cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since
-the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing
-that we should not have known her again.”
-
-However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
-himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than
-her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
-summer.
-
-“For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never could
-see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
-brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose
-wants character--there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
-tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes,
-which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything
-extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do
-not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency
-without fashion, which is intolerable.”
-
-Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not
-the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
-wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
-success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a
-determination of making him speak, she continued:
-
-“I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
-were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
-your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_
-a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she
-seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
-one time.”
-
-“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but _that_
-was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have
-considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”
-
-He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
-having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their
-visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them
-both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed,
-except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked
-of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit--of everything but
-himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of
-him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's
-beginning the subject.
-
-
-
-Chapter 46
-
-
-Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
-Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been
-renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
-on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the
-receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that
-it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as
-Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.
-
-They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and
-her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by
-themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been
-written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their
-little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;
-but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident
-agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:
-
-“Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a
-most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be
-assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia.
-An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed,
-from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland
-with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our
-surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am
-very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing
-to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
-Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step
-(and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is
-disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.
-Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How
-thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against
-him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about
-twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
-eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have
-passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect
-him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of
-their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor
-mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly
-know what I have written.”
-
-Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing
-what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the
-other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it
-had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.
-
-“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I
-wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my
-head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest
-Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you,
-and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham
-and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has
-taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone
-to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the
-day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short
-letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna
-Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W.
-never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was
-repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B.
-intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham,
-but no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney
-coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that
-is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road.
-I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that
-side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing
-them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but
-without any success--no such people had been seen to pass through. With
-the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions
-to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved
-for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our
-distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the
-worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make
-it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue
-their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a
-young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose
-her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that
-Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his
-head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to
-be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she
-exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And
-as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has
-anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of
-confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you
-have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the
-first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not
-so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I
-take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but
-circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to
-come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well,
-that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something
-more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel
-Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure
-I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any
-measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to
-be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my
-uncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will
-immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”
-
-“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat
-as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing
-a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was
-opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
-manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak,
-she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation,
-hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find
-Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not
-an instant to lose.”
-
-“Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than
-politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute;
-but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
-not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”
-
-Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how
-little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back
-the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless
-an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
-mistress home instantly.
-
-On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and
-looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
-or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
-“Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you
-present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.”
-
-“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There
-is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by
-some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”
-
-She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
-not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
-something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
-silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane,
-with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger
-sister has left all her friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into
-the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton.
-_You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no
-connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for ever.”
-
-Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in a yet
-more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what
-he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what I
-learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
-have happened. But it is all--all too late now.”
-
-“I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved--shocked. But is it
-certain--absolutely certain?”
-
-“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
-almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
-Scotland.”
-
-“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”
-
-“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
-immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But
-nothing can be done--I know very well that nothing can be done. How is
-such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
-not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!”
-
-Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
-
-“When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character--Oh! had I known what
-I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too
-much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”
-
-Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking
-up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air
-gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her
-power was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family
-weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
-wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
-consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It
-was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
-wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved
-him, as now, when all love must be vain.
-
-But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the
-humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed
-up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,
-Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of
-several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by
-the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke
-compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been
-long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my
-stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything
-could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to
-such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may
-seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I
-fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley
-to-day.”
-
-“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
-urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
-long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.”
-
-He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for
-her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
-reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
-one serious, parting look, went away.
-
-As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
-should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as
-had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
-retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full
-of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
-feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
-formerly have rejoiced in its termination.
-
-If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
-change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
-otherwise--if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
-unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on
-a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
-exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
-somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham,
-and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other
-less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him
-go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
-produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
-business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained
-a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
-could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
-of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first
-letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that
-Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry
-for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
-incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
-as this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose
-Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention
-of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue
-nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
-
-She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
-Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia
-wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one
-officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions
-raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been
-fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and
-mistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now
-feel it!
-
-She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to
-share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
-family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
-requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
-could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
-importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr.
-and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's
-account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them
-instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
-summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript
-of the last with trembling energy.--Though Lydia had never been a
-favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply
-afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the
-first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every
-assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked
-him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit,
-everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to
-be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?”
- cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for
-us; was it so?”
-
-“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
-_That_ is all settled.”
-
-“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
-prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
-truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”
-
-But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the
-hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
-to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
-impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
-business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
-be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their
-sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
-Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
-remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of
-the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
-have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
-
-
-
-Chapter 47
-
-
-“I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they
-drove from the town; “and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
-more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the
-matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should
-form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
-friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I
-am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
-would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
-regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is
-not adequate to the risk!”
-
-“Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.
-
-“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle's
-opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
-interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of
-Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe
-him capable of it?”
-
-“Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other
-neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I
-dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been
-the case?”
-
-“In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute proof
-that they are not gone to Scotland.”
-
-“Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such
-a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
-Barnet road.”
-
-“Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though
-for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is
-not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
-might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
-expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland.”
-
-“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
-marriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular
-friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
-to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He
-cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia--what attraction has she
-beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake,
-forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
-restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
-dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know
-nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
-other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has
-no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
-behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever
-seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would
-do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
-such a matter.”
-
-“But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him
-as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?”
-
-“It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with
-tears in her eyes, “that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such
-a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
-Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
-been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year,
-nay, for a twelvemonth--she has been given up to nothing but amusement
-and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle
-and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.
-Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
-flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing
-everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
-greater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
-naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
-person and address that can captivate a woman.”
-
-“But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very ill of
-Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.”
-
-“Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
-their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt,
-till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
-Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every
-sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is
-as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.”
-
-“And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity
-as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
-
-“I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the other day,
-of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at
-Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved
-with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
-circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to
-relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
-what he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
-reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He
-must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
-her.”
-
-“But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you
-and Jane seem so well to understand?”
-
-“Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw
-so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
-ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
-was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the
-case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
-necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could
-it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
-neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was
-settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening
-her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be
-in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a
-consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was far
-enough from my thoughts.”
-
-“When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
-suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”
-
-“Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either
-side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware
-that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first
-he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
-were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for
-the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular
-attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and
-wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment,
-who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.”
-
- * * * * *
-
-It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
-to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
-its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
-the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
-Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find
-no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
-
-They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night
-on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a
-comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
-by long expectations.
-
-The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing
-on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the
-carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their
-faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of
-capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
-
-Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss,
-hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her
-mother's apartment, immediately met her.
-
-Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
-eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been
-heard of the fugitives.
-
-“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
-everything will be well.”
-
-“Is my father in town?”
-
-“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”
-
-“And have you heard from him often?”
-
-“We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say
-that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
-particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write
-again till he had something of importance to mention.”
-
-“And my mother--how is she? How are you all?”
-
-“My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
-shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
-all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
-Heaven, are quite well.”
-
-“But you--how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much you
-must have gone through!”
-
-Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their
-conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
-engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach
-of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and
-thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
-
-When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth
-had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
-found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of
-good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet
-deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that
-every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,
-to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.
-
-Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'
-conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with
-tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous
-conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;
-blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the
-errors of her daughter must principally be owing.
-
-“If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to Brighton,
-with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia
-had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out
-of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
-side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been
-well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the
-charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child!
-And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham,
-wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become
-of us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his
-grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we
-shall do.”
-
-They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
-general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her
-that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.
-Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.
-
-“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “though it is right to be
-prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.
-It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we
-may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married,
-and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
-lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make
-him come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult
-together as to what is to be done.”
-
-“Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I
-could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,
-wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them
-marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but
-tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,
-after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting.
-Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my
-wits--and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me--such
-spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that
-I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to
-give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does
-not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I
-know you will contrive it all.”
-
-But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours
-in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well
-in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till
-dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on
-the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.
-
-Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
-occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
-oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
-tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
-better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could
-most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the
-subject.
-
-In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
-too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance
-before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The
-faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible
-in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger
-which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of
-fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was
-mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance
-of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:
-
-“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of.
-But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
-each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”
-
-Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
-“Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
-lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one
-false step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less
-brittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in
-her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.”
-
-Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed
-to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
-kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.
-
-In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
-half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of
-the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
-satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
-of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
-Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued
-the subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which
-I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel
-Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement
-took place? They must have seen them together for ever.”
-
-“Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
-especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
-grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
-_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had
-any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
-first got abroad, it hastened his journey.”
-
-“And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
-their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?”
-
-“Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of
-their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
-repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am
-inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.”
-
-“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
-doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?”
-
-“How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt
-a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him
-in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
-right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how
-imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
-triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter
-she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their
-being in love with each other, many weeks.”
-
-“But not before they went to Brighton?”
-
-“No, I believe not.”
-
-“And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does
-he know his real character?”
-
-“I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
-did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
-affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt;
-but I hope this may be false.”
-
-“Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,
-this could not have happened!”
-
-“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to expose
-the former faults of any person without knowing what their present
-feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.”
-
-“Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
-wife?”
-
-“He brought it with him for us to see.”
-
-Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
-were the contents:
-
-“MY DEAR HARRIET,
-
-“You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
-laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am
-missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who,
-I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I
-love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think
-it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my
-going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater,
-when I write to them and sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good joke
-it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to
-Pratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night.
-Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will
-dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall
-send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell
-Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are
-packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will
-drink to our good journey.
-
-“Your affectionate friend,
-
-“LYDIA BENNET.”
-
-“Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she had
-finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment!
-But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the subject of their
-journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her
-side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!”
-
-“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
-minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in
-such confusion!”
-
-“Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it who
-did not know the whole story before the end of the day?”
-
-“I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is
-very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to
-give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so
-much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen
-almost took from me my faculties.”
-
-“Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look
-well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety
-upon yourself alone.”
-
-“Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
-fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them.
-Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours
-of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn
-on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
-Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And
-Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
-condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters', if
-they should be of use to us.”
-
-“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps she
-_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see
-too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence
-insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.”
-
-She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had
-intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.
-
-“He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place where
-they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could
-be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the
-number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come
-with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a
-gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another might
-be remarked he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow
-discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
-determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible
-to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any
-other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone,
-and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding
-out even so much as this.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 48
-
-
-The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
-morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
-His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and
-dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.
-They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to
-send; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
-Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.
-
-When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
-information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
-to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could,
-to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only
-security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few
-days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable
-to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
-great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
-visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of
-cheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without
-reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,
-she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
-them.
-
-All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months
-before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
-to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with
-the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
-Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;
-and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the
-appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
-half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
-her sister's ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less
-of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come
-when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely
-despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of
-them.
-
-Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a
-letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately
-found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street;
-that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival,
-but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
-determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
-thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
-coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself
-did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
-eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr.
-Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised
-to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:
-
-“I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
-possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,
-whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to
-know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were
-anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a
-clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have
-nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in
-his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps,
-Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any
-other person.”
-
-Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her
-authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information
-of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never
-heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both
-of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of
-his companions in the ----shire might be able to give more information;
-and though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application
-was a something to look forward to.
-
-Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious
-part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters
-was the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
-whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every
-succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.
-
-But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for
-their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane
-had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
-she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his
-letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as
-follows:
-
-“MY DEAR SIR,
-
-“I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
-in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
-suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from
-Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself
-sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in
-your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because
-proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be
-wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune--or that
-may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the
-most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would
-have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to
-be lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte
-informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has
-proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time,
-for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think
-that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be
-guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be,
-you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined
-by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to
-whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that
-this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of
-all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says,
-will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads
-me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event
-of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved
-in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to
-console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child
-from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her
-own heinous offense.
-
-“I am, dear sir, etc., etc.”
-
-Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from
-Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
-It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he
-kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one
-living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he
-had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of
-particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore,
-who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the
-wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for
-secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for
-it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a
-very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a
-thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton.
-He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more
-formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars
-from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. “A gamester!”
- she cried. “This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”
-
-Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
-father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
-spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded
-to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and
-leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable
-for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did
-not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
-what her anxiety for his life had been before.
-
-“What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried. “Sure he
-will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
-and make him marry her, if he comes away?”
-
-As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she
-and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet
-came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
-journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.
-
-Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
-Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His
-name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and
-the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their
-being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had
-received none since her return that could come from Pemberley.
-
-The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for
-the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
-fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
-tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware
-that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
-Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
-one sleepless night out of two.
-
-When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
-philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the
-habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him
-away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of
-it.
-
-It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that
-Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
-expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, “Say
-nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,
-and I ought to feel it.”
-
-“You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.
-
-“You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone
-to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have
-been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.
-It will pass away soon enough.”
-
-“Do you suppose them to be in London?”
-
-“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”
-
-“And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.
-
-“She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence there
-will probably be of some duration.”
-
-Then after a short silence he continued:
-
-“Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me
-last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.”
-
-They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's
-tea.
-
-“This is a parade,” he cried, “which does one good; it gives such an
-elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my
-library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as
-I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.”
-
-“I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If I should
-ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”
-
-“_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne
-for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and
-you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into
-my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be
-absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters.
-And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have
-spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.”
-
-Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
-
-“Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good
-girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of
-them.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 49
-
-
-Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
-together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper
-coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their
-mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,
-when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon,
-madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
-good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.”
-
-“What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”
-
-“Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don't you know
-there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here
-this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”
-
-Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They
-ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the
-library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of
-seeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the
-butler, who said:
-
-“If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the
-little copse.”
-
-Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once
-more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately
-pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.
-
-Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as
-Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,
-came up with him, and eagerly cried out:
-
-“Oh, papa, what news--what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”
-
-“Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”
-
-“Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad?”
-
-“What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the letter from
-his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”
-
-Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
-
-“Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself what it is
-about.”
-
-“Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.
-
-“MY DEAR BROTHER,
-
-“At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as,
-upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you
-left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of
-London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough
-to know they are discovered. I have seen them both--”
-
-“Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are married!”
-
-Elizabeth read on:
-
-“I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there
-was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the
-engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will
-not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure
-to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand
-pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and
-my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her,
-during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions
-which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with,
-as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by
-express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You
-will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's
-circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be.
-The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there
-will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to
-settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude
-will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout
-the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to
-Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the
-smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at
-Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as
-fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it
-best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope
-you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as
-anything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,
-
-“EDW. GARDINER.”
-
-“Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it be
-possible that he will marry her?”
-
-“Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said her
-sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”
-
-“And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.
-
-“No; but it must be done soon.”
-
-Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time before he
-wrote.
-
-“Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write immediately.
-Consider how important every moment is in such a case.”
-
-“Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble
-yourself.”
-
-“I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”
-
-And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.
-
-“And may I ask--” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must be
-complied with.”
-
-“Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”
-
-“And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!”
-
-“Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there
-are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money
-your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever
-to pay him.”
-
-“Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”
-
-“I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a
-temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am
-gone.”
-
-“That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred to me
-before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!
-it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has
-distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.”
-
-“No,” said her father; “Wickham's a fool if he takes her with a farthing
-less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him,
-in the very beginning of our relationship.”
-
-“Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
-repaid?”
-
-Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued
-silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the
-library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.
-
-“And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as they
-were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be
-thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,
-and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”
-
-“I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he certainly would
-not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind
-uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten
-thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children
-of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand
-pounds?”
-
-“If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been,” said
-Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall
-exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has
-not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never
-be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal
-protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as
-years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is
-actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,
-she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
-first sees my aunt!”
-
-“We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,” said
-Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to
-marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of
-thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
-they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in
-time make their past imprudence forgotten.”
-
-“Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither you, nor
-I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.”
-
-It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood
-perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,
-therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make
-it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly
-replied:
-
-“Just as you please.”
-
-“May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?”
-
-“Take whatever you like, and get away.”
-
-Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went up stairs
-together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication
-would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news,
-the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As
-soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon
-married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its
-exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she
-had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter
-would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her
-felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
-
-“My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She will
-be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen!
-My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage
-everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the
-clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about
-them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him
-how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,
-Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear
-Lydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!”
-
-Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of
-these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
-Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.
-
-“For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a great
-measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to
-assist Mr. Wickham with money.”
-
-“Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it but
-her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children
-must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have
-ever had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy!
-In a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well
-it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in
-such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and
-you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
-afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”
-
-She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and
-cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had
-not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her
-father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed,
-would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite
-so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.
-
-“I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and tell the
-good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call
-on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage.
-An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do
-anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you
-heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall
-all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.”
-
-Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her
-congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took
-refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.
-
-Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was
-no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in
-looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could
-be justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had
-feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had
-gained.
-
-
-
-Chapter 50
-
-
-Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that,
-instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for
-the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived
-him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that
-respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever
-of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of
-prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be
-her husband might then have rested in its proper place.
-
-He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone
-should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he
-was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance,
-and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.
-
-When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly
-useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join
-in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow
-and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters
-successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.
-Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he
-would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then
-too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her
-husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their
-income.
-
-Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and
-the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the
-latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with
-regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet
-could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In
-terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother,
-though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
-approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the
-engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed
-that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would
-be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present
-arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the
-hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket
-allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her
-through her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within
-that sum.
-
-That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was
-another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as
-little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports
-of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he
-naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon
-dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick
-in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he
-was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any
-message to her.
-
-The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate
-speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent
-philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage
-of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the
-happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant
-farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the
-good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from
-all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit
-in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery
-was considered certain.
-
-It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this
-happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in
-spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her
-triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object
-of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of
-accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those
-attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and
-servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a
-proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering
-what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and
-importance.
-
-“Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit it--or the
-great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is
-too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for
-Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”
-
-Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the
-servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: “Mrs.
-Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and
-daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this
-neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the
-impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.”
-
-A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It
-soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,
-that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his
-daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of
-affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend
-it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable
-resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her
-marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe
-possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new
-clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of
-shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they
-took place.
-
-Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of
-the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for
-her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the
-proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its
-unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the
-spot.
-
-She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were
-few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;
-but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's
-frailty would have mortified her so much--not, however, from any fear
-of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate,
-there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been
-concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that
-Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other
-objection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the
-nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.
-
-From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The
-wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his
-feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a
-blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she
-hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no
-longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there
-seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that
-she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they
-should meet.
-
-What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the
-proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now
-have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she
-doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal,
-there must be a triumph.
-
-She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in
-disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and
-temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It
-was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease
-and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved;
-and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she
-must have received benefit of greater importance.
-
-But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what
-connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and
-precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
-family.
-
-How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,
-she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could
-belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions
-were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
-
- * * * * *
-
-Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
-acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to
-promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties
-that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal
-purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved
-on quitting the militia.
-
-“It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon as
-his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in
-considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on
-his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into
-the regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some who
-are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an
-ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It
-is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He
-promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each
-have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have
-written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements,
-and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham
-in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I
-have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying
-similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin
-a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I
-hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions,
-and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,
-unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.
-Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she
-leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to
-you and her mother.--Yours, etc.,
-
-“E. GARDINER.”
-
-Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal
-from the ----shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet
-was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the North,
-just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company,
-for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
-Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a
-pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted
-with everybody, and had so many favourites.
-
-“She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite shocking
-to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she
-likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s
-regiment.”
-
-His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being
-admitted into her family again before she set off for the North,
-received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,
-who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and
-consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,
-urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her
-and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was
-prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their
-mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show
-her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the
-North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent
-his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as
-the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was
-surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and
-had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would
-have been the last object of her wishes.
-
-
-
-Chapter 51
-
-
-Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her
-probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to
-meet them at ----, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their
-arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially,
-who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had she
-been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister
-must endure.
-
-They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive
-them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to
-the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
-anxious, uneasy.
-
-Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and
-she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and
-welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile,
-to Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an
-alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.
-
-Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite
-so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely
-opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was
-enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet
-was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy,
-and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their
-congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly
-round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and
-observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been
-there.
-
-Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners
-were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been
-exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he
-claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had
-not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,
-resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence
-of an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the
-two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour.
-
-There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither
-of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near
-Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,
-with a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her
-replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the
-world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led
-voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for
-the world.
-
-“Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went away;
-it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things
-enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure
-I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I
-thought it would be very good fun if I was.”
-
-Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked
-expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of
-which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, “Oh! mamma, do the
-people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not;
-and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he
-should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took
-off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that
-he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”
-
-Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;
-and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to
-the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with
-anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say
-to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
-lower, because I am a married woman.”
-
-It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment
-from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good
-spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and
-all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham”
- by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her
-ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
-
-“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast
-room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I
-am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half
-my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get
-husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.”
-
-“Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't
-at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”
-
-“Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
-things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We
-shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some
-balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.”
-
-“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.
-
-“And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters
-behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the
-winter is over.”
-
-“I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not
-particularly like your way of getting husbands.”
-
-Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham
-had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join
-his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
-
-No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and
-she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and
-having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to
-all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did
-think, than such as did not.
-
-Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected
-to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her
-present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that
-their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather
-than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring
-for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain
-that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and
-if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity
-of having a companion.
-
-Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every
-occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every
-thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on
-the first of September, than any body else in the country.
-
-One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two
-elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:
-
-“Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You
-were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you
-curious to hear how it was managed?”
-
-“No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too little said
-on the subject.”
-
-“La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were
-married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in
-that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven
-o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others
-were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in
-such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to
-put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was
-my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as
-if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in
-ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed
-to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”
-
-“Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never
-be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt
-were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe
-me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a
-fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was
-rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so
-just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon
-business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once
-they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I
-did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we
-were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he
-came back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However,
-I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the
-wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.”
-
-“Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
-
-“Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious
-me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised
-them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!”
-
-“If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the
-subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”
-
-“Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; “we will
-ask you no questions.”
-
-“Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell you
-all, and then Wickham would be angry.”
-
-On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her
-power, by running away.
-
-But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least
-it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at
-her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,
-where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.
-Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her
-brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as
-placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She
-could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,
-wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what
-Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
-intended.
-
-“You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must be
-to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively
-speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such
-a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,
-for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems
-to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with
-ignorance.”
-
-“Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, as she finished
-the letter; “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable
-manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it
-out.”
-
-Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
-Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad
-of it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any
-satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
-
-
-
-Chapter 52
-
-
-Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as
-soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it
-than, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to
-be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to
-be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not
-contain a denial.
-
-“Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.
-
-“MY DEAR NIECE,
-
-“I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning
-to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will not comprise
-what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your
-application; I did not expect it from _you_. Don't think me angry,
-however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such
-inquiries to be necessary on _your_ side. If you do not choose to
-understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised
-as I am--and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned
-would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really
-innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit.
-
-“On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most
-unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several
-hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so
-dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr.
-Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were,
-and that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly,
-Lydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day
-after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for
-them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to
-himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to
-make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide
-in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and
-confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private
-actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He
-called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy
-an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he _had another_
-motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days
-in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to
-direct his search, which was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness
-of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us.
-
-“There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago
-governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause
-of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large
-house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting
-lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with
-Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to
-town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he
-wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and
-corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found.
-Wickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had
-she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up
-their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the
-wished-for direction. They were in ---- street. He saw Wickham, and
-afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he
-acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful
-situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed
-on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But
-he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared
-for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear
-of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or
-other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings,
-it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which,
-in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never
-been _his_ design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment,
-on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and
-scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her
-own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as
-to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He
-must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
-nothing to live on.
-
-“Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though
-Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able
-to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by
-marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still
-cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in
-some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely
-to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief.
-
-“They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of
-course wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be
-reasonable.
-
-“Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was to
-make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch
-street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be
-seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was
-still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge
-your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your
-uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the
-departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next
-day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business.
-
-“On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home,
-and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together.
-
-“They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not all
-settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to
-Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that
-obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been
-accused of many faults at different times, but _this_ is the true one.
-Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and
-I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your
-uncle would most readily have settled the whole.
-
-“They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either
-the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle
-was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his
-niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,
-which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter
-this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation
-that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where
-it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane
-at most.
-
-“You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young
-people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably
-more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own
-settled upon _her_, and his commission purchased. The reason why all
-this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It
-was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that
-Wickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he
-had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth
-in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_ reserve,
-can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking,
-my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would
-never have yielded, if we had not given him credit for _another
-interest_ in the affair.
-
-“When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who
-were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in
-London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were
-then to receive the last finish.
-
-“I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which
-you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not
-afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant
-admission to the house. _He_ was exactly what he had been, when I
-knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was
-satisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not
-perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming
-home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell
-you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most
-serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had
-done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she
-heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was
-sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and
-Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her.
-
-“Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,
-attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave
-town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my
-dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold
-enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,
-in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His
-understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little
-more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach
-him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
-slyness seems the fashion.
-
-“Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not
-punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy
-till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little
-pair of ponies, would be the very thing.
-
-“But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half
-hour.
-
-“Yours, very sincerely,
-
-“M. GARDINER.”
-
-The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,
-in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the
-greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had
-produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
-match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too
-great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
-pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
-He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all
-the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
-supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and
-despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason
-with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to
-avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had
-done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her
-heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly
-checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity
-was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her--for
-a woman who had already refused him--as able to overcome a sentiment so
-natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law
-of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had,
-to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had
-given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary
-stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been
-wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and
-though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she
-could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist
-his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially
-concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were
-under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They
-owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh!
-how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever
-encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For
-herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause
-of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself.
-She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It
-was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some
-pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she
-and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted
-between Mr. Darcy and herself.
-
-She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's
-approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
-overtaken by Wickham.
-
-“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” said he,
-as he joined her.
-
-“You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not follow
-that the interruption must be unwelcome.”
-
-“I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and
-now we are better.”
-
-“True. Are the others coming out?”
-
-“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
-Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that
-you have actually seen Pemberley.”
-
-She replied in the affirmative.
-
-“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much
-for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the
-old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of
-me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.”
-
-“Yes, she did.”
-
-“And what did she say?”
-
-“That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned
-out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely
-misrepresented.”
-
-“Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
-silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:
-
-“I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
-several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”
-
-“Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said
-Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at this
-time of year.”
-
-“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I
-understood from the Gardiners that you had.”
-
-“Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”
-
-“And do you like her?”
-
-“Very much.”
-
-“I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year
-or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad
-you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.”
-
-“I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”
-
-“Did you go by the village of Kympton?”
-
-“I do not recollect that we did.”
-
-“I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A
-most delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited
-me in every respect.”
-
-“How should you have liked making sermons?”
-
-“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty,
-and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to
-repine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The
-quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas
-of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the
-circumstance, when you were in Kent?”
-
-“I have heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was
-left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.”
-
-“You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the
-first, you may remember.”
-
-“I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not
-so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually
-declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business
-had been compromised accordingly.”
-
-“You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember
-what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.”
-
-They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast
-to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke him,
-she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:
-
-“Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let
-us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one
-mind.”
-
-She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though
-he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.
-
-
-
-Chapter 53
-
-
-Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he
-never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,
-by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she
-had said enough to keep him quiet.
-
-The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was
-forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means
-entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to
-continue at least a twelvemonth.
-
-“Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”
-
-“Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”
-
-“Write to me very often, my dear.”
-
-“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for
-writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to
-do.”
-
-Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He
-smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.
-
-“He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of
-the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to
-us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas
-himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”
-
-The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.
-
-“I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with
-one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”
-
-“This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,” said
-Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are
-single.”
-
-“It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married,
-but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If
-that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.”
-
-But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly
-relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an
-article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper
-at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her
-master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several
-weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and
-smiled and shook her head by turns.
-
-“Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for Mrs.
-Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the better. Not
-that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am
-sure _I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome
-to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?
-But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to
-mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”
-
-“You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was in
-Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose
-to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He
-comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was
-going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on
-Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”
-
-Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing
-colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to
-Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:
-
-“I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present
-report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from
-any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that
-I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect
-me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes
-alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of
-_myself_, but I dread other people's remarks.”
-
-Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in
-Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no
-other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial
-to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming
-there _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come
-without it.
-
-“Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man cannot
-come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this
-speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.”
-
-In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her
-feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily
-perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,
-more unequal, than she had often seen them.
-
-The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,
-about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
-
-“As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “you
-will wait on him of course.”
-
-“No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I
-went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in
-nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again.”
-
-His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention
-would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to
-Netherfield.
-
-“'Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society,
-let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours
-in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back
-again.”
-
-“Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait
-on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I
-am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will
-make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for
-him.”
-
-Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
-husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her
-neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before
-_they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,--
-
-“I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her sister. “It
-would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can
-hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;
-but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she
-says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!”
-
-“I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth; “but it
-is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction
-of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have
-always so much.”
-
-Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,
-contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety
-and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted
-the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;
-hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his
-arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window,
-enter the paddock and ride towards the house.
-
-Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely
-kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went
-to the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down
-again by her sister.
-
-“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it be?”
-
-“Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not
-know.”
-
-“La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be with
-him before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man.”
-
-“Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of
-Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must
-say that I hate the very sight of him.”
-
-Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little
-of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness
-which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time
-after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable
-enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their
-mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be
-civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either
-of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be
-suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.
-Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.
-To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused,
-and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive
-information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted
-for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an
-interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as
-what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his
-coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,
-was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered
-behaviour in Derbyshire.
-
-The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a
-minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to
-her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and
-wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.
-
-“Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be early
-enough for expectation.”
-
-She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to
-lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of
-her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little
-paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the
-gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with
-tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any
-symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
-
-Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down
-again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She
-had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and,
-she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as
-she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's
-presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but
-not an improbable, conjecture.
-
-Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period
-saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.
-Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,
-especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of
-her curtsey and address to his friend.
-
-Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter
-the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy,
-was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill
-applied.
-
-Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question
-which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He
-was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but
-it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends,
-when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without
-bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist
-the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often
-found him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but
-the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when
-they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry
-with herself for being so.
-
-“Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he come?”
-
-She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to
-him she had hardly courage to speak.
-
-She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.
-
-“It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs. Bennet.
-
-He readily agreed to it.
-
-“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say
-you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope
-it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,
-since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my
-own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have
-seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know;
-though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,
-George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a
-syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything.
-It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to
-make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”
-
-Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth
-dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could
-not tell.
-
-“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,”
- continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very
-hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to
-Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay
-I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have
-heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the
-regulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so
-many as he deserves.”
-
-Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such
-misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,
-however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually
-done before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in
-the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.
-
-“When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her mother,
-“I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr.
-Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and
-will save all the best of the covies for you.”
-
-Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
-attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had
-flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be
-hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt
-that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for
-moments of such painful confusion.
-
-“The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more to
-be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure
-that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either
-one or the other again!”
-
-Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
-compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing
-how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her
-former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;
-but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He
-found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and
-as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no
-difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded
-that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,
-that she did not always know when she was silent.
-
-When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her
-intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at
-Longbourn in a few days time.
-
-“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for when
-you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with
-us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure
-you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep
-your engagement.”
-
-Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of
-his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.
-
-Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine
-there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did
-not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man
-on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride
-of one who had ten thousand a year.
-
-
-
-Chapter 54
-
-
-As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;
-or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that
-must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.
-
-“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said she,
-“did he come at all?”
-
-She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
-
-“He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when
-he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If
-he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will
-think no more about him.”
-
-Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach
-of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which showed her
-better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.
-
-“Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly
-easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by
-his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly
-seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent
-acquaintance.”
-
-“Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh, Jane,
-take care.”
-
-“My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now?”
-
-“I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with
-you as ever.”
-
- * * * * *
-
-They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in
-the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good
-humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had
-revived.
-
-On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two
-who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality
-as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the
-dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take
-the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by
-her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore
-to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to
-hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was
-decided. He placed himself by her.
-
-Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend.
-He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that
-Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes
-likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing
-alarm.
-
-His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an
-admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded
-Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his
-own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the
-consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It
-gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in
-no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table
-could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little
-such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to
-advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but
-she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and
-cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,
-made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;
-and she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell
-him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the
-family.
-
-She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of
-bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away
-without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than
-the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious
-and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the
-gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her
-uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all
-her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.
-
-“If he does not come to me, _then_,” said she, “I shall give him up for
-ever.”
-
-The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
-answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,
-where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,
-in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her
-which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of
-the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper:
-
-“The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;
-do we?”
-
-Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with
-her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough
-to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for
-being so silly!
-
-“A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to
-expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not
-protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?
-There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!”
-
-She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup
-himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:
-
-“Is your sister at Pemberley still?”
-
-“Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”
-
-“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”
-
-“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,
-these three weeks.”
-
-She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse
-with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for
-some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering
-to Elizabeth again, he walked away.
-
-When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies
-all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him,
-when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her
-mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated
-with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.
-They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had
-nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side
-of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
-
-Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to
-supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the
-others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
-
-“Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, “What
-say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,
-I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The
-venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said they never saw so
-fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the
-Lucases' last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges
-were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French
-cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater
-beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And
-what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her
-at Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good
-a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,
-and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of
-Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at
-last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy
-humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at
-not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.
-
-“It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. “The
-party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we
-may often meet again.”
-
-Elizabeth smiled.
-
-“Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me.
-I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an
-agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am
-perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had
-any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed
-with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally
-pleasing, than any other man.”
-
-“You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me smile, and
-are provoking me to it every moment.”
-
-“How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”
-
-“And how impossible in others!”
-
-“But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
-acknowledge?”
-
-“That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to
-instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive
-me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 55
-
-
-A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His
-friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in
-ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably
-good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many
-expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.
-
-“Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.”
-
-He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would
-give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.
-
-“Can you come to-morrow?”
-
-Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was
-accepted with alacrity.
-
-He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of them
-dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing
-gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:
-
-“My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is
-come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss
-Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss
-Lizzy's hair.”
-
-“We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say Kitty is
-forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.”
-
-“Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!
-Where is your sash, my dear?”
-
-But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down
-without one of her sisters.
-
-The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the
-evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his
-custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of
-the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at
-Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any
-impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last
-Kitty did, she very innocently said, “What is the matter mamma? What do
-you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?”
-
-“Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat still
-five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she
-suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here, my love, I want to
-speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look
-at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her
-entreaty that _she_ would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs.
-Bennet half-opened the door and called out:
-
-“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”
-
-Elizabeth was forced to go.
-
-“We may as well leave them by themselves you know;” said her mother, as
-soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going up stairs to sit in
-my dressing-room.”
-
-Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
-quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned
-into the drawing-room.
-
-Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every
-thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His
-ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their
-evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the
-mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command
-of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.
-
-He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went
-away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.
-Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.
-
-After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed
-between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in
-the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy
-returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably
-persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's
-concurrence.
-
-Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent
-the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more
-agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption
-or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into
-silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the
-other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;
-and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get
-every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter
-to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;
-for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be
-wanted to counteract her mother's schemes.
-
-But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she
-saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother
-had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her
-sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in
-earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of
-both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would
-have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but _hers_ she
-thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
-Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as
-well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few
-words to her sister, ran out of the room.
-
-Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give
-pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest
-emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.
-
-“'Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!
-why is not everybody as happy?”
-
-Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth,
-a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of
-kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not
-allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be
-said for the present.
-
-“I must go instantly to my mother;” she cried. “I would not on any
-account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it
-from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to
-know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear
-family! how shall I bear so much happiness!”
-
-She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the
-card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
-
-Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease
-with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many
-previous months of suspense and vexation.
-
-“And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend's anxious
-circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the
-happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!”
-
-In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her
-father had been short and to the purpose.
-
-“Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door.
-
-“With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.”
-
-He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes
-and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed
-her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with
-great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen
-to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;
-and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his
-expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for
-basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of
-Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and
-himself.
-
-It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of
-Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as
-made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped
-her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or
-speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,
-though she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when
-Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed
-how really happy he was.
-
-Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their
-visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he
-turned to his daughter, and said:
-
-“Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”
-
-Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
-goodness.
-
-“You are a good girl;” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in
-thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your
-doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are
-each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so
-easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will
-always exceed your income.”
-
-“I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be
-unpardonable in me.”
-
-“Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what are you
-talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely
-more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so
-happy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it
-would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not
-be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when
-he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was
-that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
-ever was seen!”
-
-Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her
-favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger
-sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness
-which she might in future be able to dispense.
-
-Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty
-begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
-
-Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;
-coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after
-supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough
-detested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself
-obliged to accept.
-
-Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for
-while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else;
-but she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours
-of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he
-always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of
-her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of
-relief.
-
-“He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me that he
-was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed
-it possible.”
-
-“I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account for
-it?”
-
-“It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to
-his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have
-chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,
-as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will
-learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we
-can never be what we once were to each other.”
-
-“That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I ever
-heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again
-the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard.”
-
-“Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,
-he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being
-indifferent would have prevented his coming down again!”
-
-“He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his
-modesty.”
-
-This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and
-the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased
-to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for,
-though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she
-knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
-
-“I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!” cried
-Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed
-above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but
-such another man for you!”
-
-“If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as
-you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your
-happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very
-good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.”
-
-The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a
-secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips,
-and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her
-neighbours in Meryton.
-
-The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the
-world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,
-they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.
-
-
-
-Chapter 56
-
-
-One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been
-formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the
-dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the
-sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up
-the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
-equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses
-were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who
-preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
-somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid
-the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the
-shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three
-continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown
-open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
-
-They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
-astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.
-Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even
-inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
-
-She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no
-other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the
-head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her
-name to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of
-introduction had been made.
-
-Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such
-high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting
-for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,
-
-“I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your
-mother.”
-
-Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
-
-“And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.”
-
-“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady Catherine.
-“She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married,
-and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man
-who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.”
-
-“You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after a short
-silence.
-
-“It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I
-assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's.”
-
-“This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in
-summer; the windows are full west.”
-
-Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then
-added:
-
-“May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and
-Mrs. Collins well.”
-
-“Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”
-
-Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from
-Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no
-letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.
-
-Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some
-refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,
-declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,
-
-“Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness
-on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you
-will favour me with your company.”
-
-“Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about the
-different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.”
-
-Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
-attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the
-hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
-drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent
-looking rooms, walked on.
-
-Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
-waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk
-that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for
-conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and
-disagreeable.
-
-“How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she looked in
-her face.
-
-As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following
-manner:--
-
-“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my
-journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I
-come.”
-
-Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
-
-“Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account
-for the honour of seeing you here.”
-
-“Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to
-know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may
-choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been
-celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such
-moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most
-alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your
-sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that
-you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon
-afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I
-_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him
-so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved
-on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to
-you.”
-
-“If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth, colouring
-with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming
-so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?”
-
-“At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.”
-
-“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said Elizabeth
-coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report
-is in existence.”
-
-“If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
-industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a
-report is spread abroad?”
-
-“I never heard that it was.”
-
-“And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?”
-
-“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may
-ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”
-
-“This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has
-he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”
-
-“Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”
-
-“It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his
-reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,
-have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You
-may have drawn him in.”
-
-“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”
-
-“Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such
-language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,
-and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”
-
-“But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this,
-ever induce me to be explicit.”
-
-“Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
-presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is
-engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?”
-
-“Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will
-make an offer to me.”
-
-Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
-
-“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,
-they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of
-_his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned
-the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would
-be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of
-inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to
-the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his
-tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of
-propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest
-hours he was destined for his cousin?”
-
-“Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is
-no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not
-be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to
-marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the
-marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither
-by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make
-another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”
-
-“Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes,
-Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or
-friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will
-be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him.
-Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned
-by any of us.”
-
-“These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife of Mr.
-Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily
-attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause
-to repine.”
-
-“Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude
-for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that
-score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came
-here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will
-I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's
-whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.”
-
-“_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;
-but it will have no effect on me.”
-
-“I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my
-nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal
-side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,
-honourable, and ancient--though untitled--families. Their fortune on
-both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of
-every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them?
-The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections,
-or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you
-were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in
-which you have been brought up.”
-
-“In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that
-sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are
-equal.”
-
-“True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother?
-Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their
-condition.”
-
-“Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew does
-not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.”
-
-“Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”
-
-Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
-Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a
-moment's deliberation:
-
-“I am not.”
-
-Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
-
-“And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?”
-
-“I will make no promise of the kind.”
-
-“Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more
-reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that
-I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the
-assurance I require.”
-
-“And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into
-anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry
-your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their
-marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would
-my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?
-Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have
-supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the
-application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if
-you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your
-nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell;
-but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
-therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.”
-
-“Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
-objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am
-no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous
-elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a
-patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is
-such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his
-late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what are
-you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”
-
-“You can now have nothing further to say,” she resentfully answered.
-“You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to
-the house.”
-
-And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned
-back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
-
-“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!
-Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you
-must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”
-
-“Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.”
-
-“You are then resolved to have him?”
-
-“I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,
-which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without
-reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.”
-
-“It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the
-claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in
-the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.”
-
-“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth, “have any
-possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either
-would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the
-resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former
-_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's
-concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in
-the scorn.”
-
-“And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well.
-I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your
-ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you
-reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.”
-
-In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of
-the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, “I take no leave
-of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve
-no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.”
-
-Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
-ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She
-heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother
-impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady
-Catherine would not come in again and rest herself.
-
-“She did not choose it,” said her daughter, “she would go.”
-
-“She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously
-civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were
-well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through
-Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had
-nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?”
-
-Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
-acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.
-
-
-
-Chapter 57
-
-
-The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw
-Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for many
-hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it
-appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,
-for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.
-Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report
-of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;
-till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,
-and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
-expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply
-the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her
-sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours
-at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the
-Collinses, the report, she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine), had
-only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked
-forward to as possible at some future time.
-
-In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help
-feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting
-in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to
-prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate
-an application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar
-representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared
-not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his
-aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose
-that he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it
-was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,
-whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would
-address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would
-probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak
-and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.
-
-If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often
-seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might
-settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity
-unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
-Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to
-Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.
-
-“If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his
-friend within a few days,” she added, “I shall know how to understand
-it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his
-constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might
-have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him
-at all.”
-
- * * * * *
-
-The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had
-been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same
-kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and
-Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject.
-
-The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her
-father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
-
-“Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my room.”
-
-She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to
-tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner
-connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it
-might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the
-consequent explanations.
-
-She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He
-then said,
-
-“I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
-exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its
-contents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink
-of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.”
-
-The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous
-conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;
-and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained
-himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to
-herself; when her father continued:
-
-“You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters
-as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the
-name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.”
-
-“From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?”
-
-“Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
-congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of
-which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping
-Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says
-on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: 'Having thus
-offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on
-this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another;
-of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
-Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after
-her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may
-be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in
-this land.'
-
-“Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? 'This young
-gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of
-mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive
-patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin
-Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate
-closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be
-inclined to take immediate advantage of.'
-
-“Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:
-
-“'My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine
-that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with
-a friendly eye.'
-
-“_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
-surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man within
-the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie
-more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any
-woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his
-life! It is admirable!”
-
-Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force
-one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so
-little agreeable to her.
-
-“Are you not diverted?”
-
-“Oh! yes. Pray read on.”
-
-“'After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last
-night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she
-felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some
-family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her
-consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty
-to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and
-her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
-hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.' Mr.
-Collins moreover adds, 'I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad
-business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their
-living together before the marriage took place should be so generally
-known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain
-from declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young
-couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an
-encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should
-very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them,
-as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their
-names to be mentioned in your hearing.' That is his notion of Christian
-forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's
-situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you
-look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _missish_,
-I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we
-live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our
-turn?”
-
-“Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so
-strange!”
-
-“Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man
-it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_
-pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
-writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any
-consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving
-him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and
-hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine
-about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”
-
-To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had
-been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by
-his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her
-feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she
-would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by
-what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but
-wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of
-his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much.
-
-
-
-Chapter 58
-
-
-Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as
-Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy
-with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's
-visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time
-to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat
-in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed
-their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the
-habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five
-set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others
-to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy
-were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty
-was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a
-desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
-
-They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon
-Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,
-when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the
-moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was
-high, she immediately said:
-
-“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving
-relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I
-can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my
-poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to
-acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest
-of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”
-
-“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise
-and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a
-mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner
-was so little to be trusted.”
-
-“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to
-me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could
-not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,
-in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced
-you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the
-sake of discovering them.”
-
-“If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone.
-That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other
-inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your
-_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought
-only of _you_.”
-
-Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,
-her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your
-feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_
-affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence
-me on this subject for ever.”
-
-Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of
-his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not
-very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone
-so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make
-her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The
-happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never
-felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
-warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth
-been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the
-expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him;
-but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of
-feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his
-affection every moment more valuable.
-
-They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to
-be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She
-soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
-to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through
-London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the
-substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on
-every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension,
-peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that
-such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise
-from her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her
-ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
-
-“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself
-to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that,
-had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have
-acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.”
-
-Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough
-of my frankness to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so
-abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all
-your relations.”
-
-“What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
-accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my
-behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was
-unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
-
-“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that
-evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,
-will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved
-in civility.”
-
-“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I
-then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of
-it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your
-reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a
-more gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can
-scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time,
-I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
-
-“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an
-impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such
-a way.”
-
-“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper
-feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never
-forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible
-way that would induce you to accept me.”
-
-“Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at
-all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”
-
-Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make you
-think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its
-contents?”
-
-She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her
-former prejudices had been removed.
-
-“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was
-necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part
-especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the
-power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might
-justly make you hate me.”
-
-“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the
-preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my
-opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
-changed as that implies.”
-
-“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly
-calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a
-dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
-
-“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The
-adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings
-of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now
-so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant
-circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some
-of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you
-pleasure.”
-
-“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your
-retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment
-arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of
-innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude
-which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish
-being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I
-was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I
-was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
-Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt
-by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all
-that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught
-me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family
-circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least
-to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I
-was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been
-but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You
-taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you,
-I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception.
-You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman
-worthy of being pleased.”
-
-“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”
-
-“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be
-wishing, expecting my addresses.”
-
-“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure
-you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me
-wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?”
-
-“Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take
-a proper direction.”
-
-“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at
-Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”
-
-“No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”
-
-“Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.
-My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I
-confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.”
-
-“My object then,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every civility in
-my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to
-obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you
-see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes
-introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an
-hour after I had seen you.”
-
-He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her
-disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to
-the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of
-following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed
-before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness
-there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must
-comprehend.
-
-She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to
-each, to be dwelt on farther.
-
-After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know
-anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that
-it was time to be at home.
-
-“What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which
-introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with
-their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of
-it.
-
-“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.
-
-“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”
-
-“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And
-though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much
-the case.
-
-“On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a
-confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I
-told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his
-affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had
-the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself
-mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent
-to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was
-unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”
-
-Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his
-friend.
-
-“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him
-that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”
-
-“From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits
-which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.”
-
-“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to
-him.”
-
-“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had
-prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but
-his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess
-one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not
-allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months
-last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was
-angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained
-in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me
-now.”
-
-Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful
-friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked
-herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at,
-and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness
-of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he
-continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they
-parted.
-
-
-
-Chapter 59
-
-
-“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a question
-which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room,
-and from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to
-say in reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own
-knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything
-else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.
-
-The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The
-acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.
-Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;
-and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy
-than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,
-there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt
-in the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no
-one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a
-dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
-
-At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far
-from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.
-
-“You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,
-you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”
-
-“This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and
-I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am
-in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are
-engaged.”
-
-Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much
-you dislike him.”
-
-“You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I
-did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as
-these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever
-remember it myself.”
-
-Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
-seriously assured her of its truth.
-
-“Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,” cried
-Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you
-certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be
-happy with him?”
-
-“There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that
-we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,
-Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?”
-
-“Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more
-delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you
-really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than
-marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
-to do?”
-
-“Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I
-tell you all.”
-
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am
-afraid you will be angry.”
-
-“My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let
-me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me
-how long you have loved him?”
-
-“It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.
-But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds
-at Pemberley.”
-
-Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
-desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances
-of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
-further to wish.
-
-“Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as myself.
-I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you,
-I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your
-husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But
-Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
-tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know
-of it to another, not to you.”
-
-Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling
-to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made
-her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer
-conceal from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,
-and half the night spent in conversation.
-
- * * * * *
-
-“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next
-morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with
-our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always
-coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or
-other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?
-Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's
-way.”
-
-Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet
-was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
-epithet.
-
-As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and
-shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;
-and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes
-hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?”
-
-“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to walk
-to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has
-never seen the view.”
-
-“It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I am
-sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?” Kitty owned that
-she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see
-the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went
-up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:
-
-“I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
-disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is
-all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking
-to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to
-inconvenience.”
-
-During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be
-asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the
-application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother
-would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur
-would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she
-were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it
-was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit
-to her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear
-the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
-disapprobation.
-
- * * * * *
-
-In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw
-Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was
-extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to
-be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means--that _she_,
-his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
-filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her--was a wretched
-reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
-looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes
-he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
-pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, “Go to your father, he
-wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.
-
-Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
-“Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be
-accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”
-
-How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more
-reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from
-explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
-but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,
-of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
-
-“Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be
-sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.
-But will they make you happy?”
-
-“Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief of my
-indifference?”
-
-“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but
-this would be nothing if you really liked him.”
-
-“I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes, “I love him.
-Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not
-know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in
-such terms.”
-
-“Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the kind
-of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he
-condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on
-having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know
-your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor
-respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked
-up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
-greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape
-discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing
-_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are
-about.”
-
-Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and
-at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object
-of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of
-him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection
-was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months'
-suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did
-conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
-
-“Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no more to
-say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with
-you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”
-
-To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy
-had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.
-
-“This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;
-made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him
-his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble
-and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have
-paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own
-way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about
-his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.”
-
-He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading
-Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her
-at last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, “If any young men come
-for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.”
-
-Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after
-half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join
-the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for
-gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer
-anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity
-would come in time.
-
-When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,
-and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;
-for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to
-utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could
-comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit
-what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a
-lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in
-her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
-
-“Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would
-have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich
-and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
-you will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so
-pleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my
-dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I
-hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing
-that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,
-Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted.”
-
-This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and
-Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,
-soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,
-her mother followed her.
-
-“My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else! Ten
-thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a
-special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But
-my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,
-that I may have it to-morrow.”
-
-This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman
-himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain
-possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'
-consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow
-passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood
-in such awe of her intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to
-him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her
-deference for his opinion.
-
-Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get
-acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising
-every hour in his esteem.
-
-“I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham, perhaps,
-is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well
-as Jane's.”
-
-
-
-Chapter 60
-
-
-Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.
-Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. “How could
-you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when
-you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first
-place?”
-
-“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which
-laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I
-knew that I _had_ begun.”
-
-“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour
-to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke
-to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;
-did you admire me for my impertinence?”
-
-“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
-
-“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.
-The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
-attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,
-and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and
-interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really
-amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you
-took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and
-in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
-courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for
-it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
-reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks
-of _that_ when they fall in love.”
-
-“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was
-ill at Netherfield?”
-
-“Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
-by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are
-to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me
-to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may
-be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling
-to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
-called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
-you look as if you did not care about me?”
-
-“Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.”
-
-“But I was embarrassed.”
-
-“And so was I.”
-
-“You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”
-
-“A man who had felt less, might.”
-
-“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that
-I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you
-_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when
-you _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of
-thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect.
-_Too much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort
-springs from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the
-subject. This will never do.”
-
-“You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady
-Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of
-removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to
-your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour
-to wait for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me
-hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.”
-
-“Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,
-for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to
-Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?
-or had you intended any more serious consequence?”
-
-“My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I
-might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to
-myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,
-and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.”
-
-“Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to
-befall her?”
-
-“I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it
-ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be
-done directly.”
-
-“And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and
-admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But
-I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.”
-
-From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy
-had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's
-long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would
-be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and
-aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as
-follows:
-
-“I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done,
-for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the
-truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.
-But _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your
-fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the
-subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you
-cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a
-great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again,
-for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your
-idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I
-am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so
-before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she
-only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that
-he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.
-Yours, etc.”
-
-Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and still
-different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply
-to his last.
-
-“DEAR SIR,
-
-“I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon
-be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can.
-But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.
-
-“Yours sincerely, etc.”
-
-Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
-marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even
-to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her
-former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was
-affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing
-her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.
-
-The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information,
-was as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were
-insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of
-being loved by her sister.
-
-Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations
-to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the
-Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this
-sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered
-so exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that
-Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till
-the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend
-was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their
-meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she
-saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of
-her husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even
-listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away
-the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all
-meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did
-shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.
-
-Mrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his
-forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in
-too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good
-humour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.
-Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all
-likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield
-him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep
-him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
-without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising
-from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it
-added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to
-the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing
-to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at
-Pemberley.
-
-
-
-Chapter 61
-
-
-Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got
-rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride
-she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may
-be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the
-accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many
-of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible,
-amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it
-was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity
-in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
-invariably silly.
-
-Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her
-drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in
-going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.
-
-Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near
-a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to
-_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his
-sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county
-to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source
-of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.
-
-Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with
-her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally
-known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a
-temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example,
-she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less
-ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's
-society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham
-frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of
-balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.
-
-Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily
-drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
-unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but
-she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no
-longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,
-it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without
-much reluctance.
-
-As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from
-the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
-Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude
-and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every
-thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on
-to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received
-from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,
-if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
-effect:
-
-“MY DEAR LIZZY,
-
-“I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear
-Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so
-rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us.
-I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not
-think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help.
-Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however,
-do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
-
-“Yours, etc.”
-
-As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in
-her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.
-Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice
-of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she
-frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
-income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in
-their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to
-their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
-herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance
-towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the
-restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the
-extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap
-situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for
-her soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and
-in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to
-reputation which her marriage had given her.
-
-Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
-Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was
-occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
-in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently
-staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
-proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.
-
-Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she
-thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she
-dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as
-attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility
-to Elizabeth.
-
-Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters
-was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each
-other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
-in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with
-an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of
-talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect
-which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open
-pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen
-in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that
-a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
-always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.
-
-Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;
-and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in
-her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him
-language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time
-all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,
-he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;
-and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her
-resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity
-to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait
-on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
-received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the
-visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
-
-With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
-Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
-sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing
-her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
-
-
-
-
-
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diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_00_array/Array.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_00_array/Array.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 010d976..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_00_array/Array.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,164 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_array;
-
-/**
- * 二次封装属于我们自己的数组
- */
-public class Array {
- private E[] data;
- private int size;
-
- public Array(int capacity){
- data=(E[])new Object[capacity];
- size=0;
- }
-
- //无参构造函数,默认数组的容量是10
- public Array(){
- this(10);
- }
-
- public int getSize(){
- return size;
- }
-
- public int getCapacity(){
- return data.length;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size==0;
- }
-
- //在所有元素后添加新元素
- public void addLast(E e) {
- //要先判断是否有空间来容纳新元素
- /*if(size==data.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("AddLast failed,array is full");
- }
- data[size]=e;
- size++;*/
- add(size,e);
- }
-
- //在所有元素前添加新元素
- public void addFirst(E e){
- add(0,e);
- }
-
- //在index位置插入元素
- public void add(int index,E e){
- /* if(size==data.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Add failed,array is full");
- }*/
- if(size==data.length){
- resize(data.length*2);
- }
- if(index<0 || index>size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Add Failed,0<=index<=size is required");
- }
- //index位置后的元素向右移动
- for(int i=size;i>index;i--){
- data[i]=data[i-1];
- }
- data[index]=e;
- size++;
- }
-
- //获取index位置的元素
- public E get(int index){
- if(index<0 || index>=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Get failed,index is illegal");
- }
- return data[index];
- }
-
- //设置index位置元素值为e
- public void set(int index,E e){
- if(index<0 || index>=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Get failed,index is illegal");
- }
- data[index]=e;
- }
-
- //查找数组中是否有元素e,有就返回下标,没有就返回-1
- public boolean contains(E e){
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Remove failed,index is illegal");
- }
- E ret=data[index];
- for(int i=index+1;i array=new Array<>();
- array.addLast(1);
- array.addLast(3);
- array.addLast(4);
- array.addFirst(0);
- array.addFirst(5);
- array.addFirst(6);
- array.addFirst(7);
- array.addFirst(8);
- array.addFirst(9);
- array.addFirst(10);
- System.out.println(array);
-
- array.add(4,11);
- System.out.println(array);
-
- array.removeElement(4);
- System.out.println(array);
-
- array.removeElement(11);
- System.out.println(array);
-
- Array array1=new Array<>();
- array1.addFirst(new Student("杨过",22));
- array1.addFirst(new Student("小龙女",27));
- System.out.println(array1);
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_00_array/Student.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_00_array/Student.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 35ae126..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_00_array/Student.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,22 +0,0 @@
-package code_00_array;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/11/13.
- */
-public class Student {
- String name;
- int age;
-
- public Student(String name, int age) {
- this.name = name;
- this.age = age;
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- return "Student{" +
- "name='" + name + '\'' +
- ", age=" + age +
- '}';
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_01_stackAndQueue/ArrayQueue.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_01_stackAndQueue/ArrayQueue.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 7daca06..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_01_stackAndQueue/ArrayQueue.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,59 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_stackAndQueue;
-
-import code_00_array.Array;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/11/17.
- */
-public class ArrayQueue implements Queue {
- Array array;
-
- public ArrayQueue(int capacity){
- array=new Array<>(capacity);
- }
-
- public ArrayQueue(){
- array=new Array<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return array.getSize();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return array.isEmpty();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void enqueue(E e) {
- array.addLast(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public E dequeue() {
- return array.removeFirst();
- }
-
- @Override
- public E getFront() {
- return array.get(0);
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- StringBuilder ret=new StringBuilder();
- ret.append("Queue: ");
- ret.append("font [");
- for(int i=0;i implements Stack {
- Array array;
-
- public ArrayStack(int capacity){
- array=new Array<>(capacity);
- }
-
- public ArrayStack(){
- array=new Array<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return array.getSize();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return array.isEmpty();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void push(E e) {
- array.addLast(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public E pop() {
- return array.removeLast();
- }
-
- @Override
- public E peek() {
- E ele=array.get(array.getSize()-1);
- return ele;
- }
-
- public int getCapacity(){
- return array.getCapacity();
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- StringBuilder ret=new StringBuilder();
- ret.append("Stack: ");
- ret.append("[");
- for(int i=0;i implements Queue {
- private E[] data;
- private int front,tail;
- private int size;
-
- public LoopQueue(int capacity){
- //循环队列会浪费一个单位空间
- data=(E[])new Object[capacity+1];
- front=0;
- tail=0;
- size=0;
- }
-
- public LoopQueue(){
- this(10);
- }
-
- public int getCapacity(){
- return data.length-1;
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return front==tail;
- }
-
- @Override
- public void enqueue(E e) {
- //出队操作,先判断队列是否满了
- if((tail+1)%data.length==front){
- resize(getCapacity()*2);
- }
- data[tail]=e;
- tail=(tail+1)%data.length;
- size++;
- }
-
- @Override
- public E dequeue() {
- if(isEmpty()){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("con not dequeue from empty queue");
- }
- E ret=data[front];
- data[front]=null;
- front=(front+1)%data.length;
- size--;
- if(size==getCapacity()/4 && getCapacity()/2!=0){
- resize(getCapacity()/2);
- }
- return ret;
- }
-
- @Override
- public E getFront() {
- if(isEmpty()){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("con not dequeue from empty queue");
- }
- return data[front];
- }
-
- private void resize(int newCapacity) {
- E[] newData=(E[])new Object[newCapacity+1];
- for(int i=0;i stack=new ArrayStack<>();
- for(int i=0;i<5;i++){
- stack.push(i);
- System.out.println(stack);
- }
- stack.pop();
- System.out.println(stack);*/
-
- /* Queue queue=new ArrayQueue<>();
- for(int i=0;i<10;i++){
- queue.enqueue(i);
- System.out.println(queue);
- if(i%3==2){
- queue.dequeue();
- System.out.println(queue);
- }
- }*/
- /* Queue queue=new LoopQueue<>();
- for(int i=0;i<11;i++){
- queue.enqueue(i);
- System.out.println(queue);
- if(i%3==2){
- queue.dequeue();
- System.out.println(queue);
- }
- }*/
-
- int opCount=100000;
- ArrayQueue arrayQueue=new ArrayQueue<>();
- double t1=testQueue(arrayQueue,opCount);
- System.out.println("Array Queue time:"+t1+"s");
-
- LoopQueue loopQueue=new LoopQueue<>();
- double t2=testQueue(loopQueue,opCount);
- System.out.println("Loop Queue time:"+t2+"s");
- }
-
- //测试使用q运行opCount个enqueue和dequeue操作所需要的时间,单位:秒
- private static double testQueue(Queue q,int opCount){
- long startTime=System.nanoTime();
-
- Random random=new Random();
- for(int i=0;i {
- int getSize();
- boolean isEmpty();
- void enqueue(E e);
- E dequeue();
- E getFront();
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_01_stackAndQueue/Solution.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_01_stackAndQueue/Solution.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 1a918de..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_01_stackAndQueue/Solution.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,68 +0,0 @@
-package code_01_stackAndQueue;
-
-import java.util.Stack;
-/**
- * 20. Valid Parentheses
- * Given a string containing just the characters '(', ')', '{', '}', '[' and ']', determine if the input string is valid.
-
- An input string is valid if:
-
- Open brackets must be closed by the same type of brackets.
- Open brackets must be closed in the correct order.
- Note that an empty string is also considered valid.
-
- Example 1:
-
- Input: "()"
- Output: true
- Example 2:
-
- Input: "()[]{}"
- Output: true
- Example 3:
-
- Input: "(]"
- Output: false
- Example 4:
-
- Input: "([)]"
- Output: false
- Example 5:
-
- Input: "{[]}"
- Output: true
-
- */
-
-public class Solution {
- public boolean isValid(String s) {
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- for(int i=0;i {
- int getSize();
- boolean isEmpty();
- void push(E e);
- E pop();
- E peek();
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/LinkedList.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/LinkedList.java
deleted file mode 100644
index bd8e0e5..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/LinkedList.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,128 +0,0 @@
-package code_02_linkedlist;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/11/21.
- */
-public class LinkedList {
- private Node dummyHead;
- private int size;
-
- public LinkedList(){
- dummyHead=new Node(null,null);
- size=0;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size==0;
- }
-
- public int getSize(){
- return size;
- }
-
- //在链表index位置[从0开始]插入元素
- //这项操作在链表中并不常用
- public void add(int index,E e){
- if(index<0 || index> size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node prev=dummyHead;
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node cur=dummyHead.next;
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node cur=dummyHead.next;
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node prev=dummyHead;
- for(int i=0;i");
- cur=cur.next;
- }
- builder.append("NULL");
- return builder.toString();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/LinkedListQueue.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/LinkedListQueue.java
deleted file mode 100644
index c65def9..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/LinkedListQueue.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,88 +0,0 @@
-package code_02_linkedlist;
-
-import code_01_stackAndQueue.Queue;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/12/7.
- */
-public class LinkedListQueue implements Queue{
- private Node head;
- private Node tail;
- private int size;
-
- public LinkedListQueue(){
- head=null;
- tail=null;
- size=0;
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return size==0;
- }
-
- @Override
- public void enqueue(E e) {
- if(tail==null){
- tail=new Node(e);
- head=tail;
- }else{
- tail.next=new Node(e);
- tail=tail.next;
- }
- size++;
- }
-
- @Override
- public E dequeue() {
- if(isEmpty()){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Can not dequeue from empty queue.");
- }
- Node delNode=head;
- head=head.next;
- delNode.next=null;
- if(head==null){
- tail=null;
- }
- size--;
- return (E)delNode.e;
- }
-
- @Override
- public E getFront() {
- if(isEmpty()){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Can not dequeue from empty queue.");
- }
- return (E)head.e;
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- StringBuilder builder=new StringBuilder();
- builder.append("Queue: front ");
- Node cur=head;
- while(cur!=null){
- builder.append(cur+"->");
- cur=cur.next;
- }
- builder.append("Null tail");
- return builder.toString();
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- Queue queue=new LinkedListQueue<>();
- for(int i=0;i<11;i++){
- queue.enqueue(i);
- System.out.println(queue);
- if(i%3==2){
- queue.dequeue();
- System.out.println(queue);
- }
- }
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/LinkedListStack.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/LinkedListStack.java
deleted file mode 100644
index e003cf3..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/LinkedListStack.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,57 +0,0 @@
-package code_02_linkedlist;
-
-import code_01_stackAndQueue.Stack;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/12/7.
- */
-public class LinkedListStack implements Stack{
- private LinkedList linkedList;
-
- public LinkedListStack(){
- linkedList=new LinkedList<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return linkedList.getSize();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return linkedList.isEmpty();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void push(E e) {
- linkedList.addFirst(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public E pop() {
- return linkedList.removeFirst();
- }
-
- @Override
- public E peek() {
- return linkedList.getFirst();
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- StringBuilder builder=new StringBuilder();
- builder.append("Stack:top ");
- builder.append(linkedList);
- return builder.toString();
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- Stack stack=new LinkedListStack<>();
- for(int i=0;i<5;i++){
- stack.push(i);
- System.out.println(stack);
- }
- stack.pop();
- System.out.println(stack);
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/Main.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/Main.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 380c820..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/Main.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,25 +0,0 @@
-package code_02_linkedlist;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/12/6.
- */
-public class Main {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- LinkedList linkedList=new LinkedList<>();
- for(int i=0;i<5;i++){
- linkedList.addFirst(i);
- System.out.println(linkedList);
- }
- linkedList.add(2,666);
- System.out.println(linkedList);
-
- linkedList.remove(2);
- System.out.println(linkedList);
-
- linkedList.removeFirst();
- System.out.println(linkedList);
-
- linkedList.removeLast();
- System.out.println(linkedList);
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/Node.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/Node.java
deleted file mode 100644
index e8047a4..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_02_linkedlist/Node.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,26 +0,0 @@
-package code_02_linkedlist;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/12/6.
- */
-public class Node {
- public E e;
- public Node next;
- public Node(E e, Node next){
- this.e=e;
- this.next=next;
- }
-
- public Node(E e){
- this(e,null);
- }
-
- public Node(){
- this(null,null);
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- return e.toString();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/ListNode.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/ListNode.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 92009cb..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/ListNode.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,34 +0,0 @@
-package code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/12/7.
- */
-public class ListNode {
- public int val;
- public ListNode next;
- public ListNode(int x) { val = x; }
-
- public ListNode(int[] arr){
- if(arr==null || arr.length==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("arr can not be empty");
- }
- ListNode cur=this;
- cur.val=arr[0];
- for(int i=1;i");
- cur=cur.next;
- }
- res.append("NULL");
- return res.toString();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/Solution.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/Solution.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 3d75f06..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/Solution.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,38 +0,0 @@
-package code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/12/7.
- */
-public class Solution {
- public ListNode removeElements(ListNode head, int val) {
- if(head==null){
- return head;
- }
- while(head.val==val){
- ListNode delNode=head;
- head=head.next;
- delNode.next=null;
- }
-
- ListNode prev=head;
- while(prev.next!=null){
- if(prev.next.val==val){
- ListNode delNode=prev.next;
- prev.next=delNode.next;
- delNode.next=null;
- }else{
- prev=prev.next;
- }
- }
- return head;
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- int[] arr={1,2,6,3,4,5,6};
- int val = 6;
- ListNode head=new ListNode(arr);
- System.out.println(head);
- new Solution().removeElements(head,val);
- System.out.println(head);
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/Solution2.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/Solution2.java
deleted file mode 100644
index b7959f5..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/Solution2.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,32 +0,0 @@
-package code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/12/7.
- */
-public class Solution2 {
- public ListNode removeElements(ListNode head, int val) {
- ListNode dummyHead=new ListNode(-1);
- dummyHead.next=head;
-
- ListNode prev=dummyHead;
- while(prev.next!=null){
- if(prev.next.val==val){
- ListNode delNode=prev.next;
- prev.next=delNode.next;
- delNode.next=null;
- }else{
- prev=prev.next;
- }
- }
- return dummyHead.next;
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- int[] arr={1,2,6,3,4,5,6};
- int val = 6;
- ListNode head=new ListNode(arr);
- System.out.println(head);
- new Solution2().removeElements(head,val);
- System.out.println(head);
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/Solution3.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/Solution3.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 2455c85..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion/Solution3.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,28 +0,0 @@
-package code_03_linkedlistAndRecursion;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/12/7.
- */
-public class Solution3 {
- public ListNode removeElements(ListNode head, int val) {
- if(head==null){
- return null;
- }
- ListNode res=removeElements(head.next,val);
- if(head.val==val){
- return res;
- }else{
- head.next=res;
- return head;
- }
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- int[] arr={1,2,6,3,4,5,6};
- int val = 6;
- ListNode head=new ListNode(arr);
- System.out.println(head);
- new Solution3().removeElements(head,val);
- System.out.println(head);
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_04_bst/BST.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_04_bst/BST.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 9c3709a..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_04_bst/BST.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,402 +0,0 @@
-package code_04_bst;
-
-import java.util.LinkedList;
-import java.util.Queue;
-import java.util.Stack;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/17.
- */
-public class BST> {
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public BST(){
- root=null;
- size=0;
- }
-
- public int size(){
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size==0;
- }
-
- private class Node{
- public E e;
- public Node left,right;
- public Node(E e){
- this.e=e;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- }
- }
-
- /* //向BST中添加新元素e
- public void add(E e){
- if(root==null){
- root=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }else{
- add(root,e);
- }
- }
-
- //向以node为根节点的BST树种插入元素e
- private void add(Node node,E e){
- if(e.equals(node.e)){
- //插入元素与根节点相等,直接返回
- return;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0 && node.left==null){
- node.left=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0 && node.right==null){
- node.right=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- add(node.left,e);
- }else{ //e.compareTo(node.e)>0
- add(node.right,e);
- }
- }*/
-
- //向BST中添加新元素e
- public void add(E e){
- root=add(root,e);
- }
-
- //向以node为根节点的BST树种插入元素e
- //返回插入新元素后该BST的根
- private Node add(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(e);
- }
- //注意:对于e.equals(node.e)不做处理
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,e);
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,e);
- }
- return node;
- }
-
- //查看BST中是否包含元素e
- public boolean contains(E e){
- return contains(root,e);
- }
-
- //查看以node为根节点的BST中是否包含元素e
- private boolean contains(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- return false;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)==0){
- return true;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- return contains(node.left,e);
- }else{
- return contains(node.right,e);
- }
- }
-
- //BST的前序遍历
- public void preOrder(){
- preOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void preOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- System.out.println(node.e);
- preOrder(node.left);
- preOrder(node.right);
- }
-
- //BST的前序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void preOrderNR(){
- preOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void preOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- }
- }
- }
-
-
- //BST的中序遍历
- public void inOrder(){
- inOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void inOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- inOrder(node.left);
- System.out.println(node.e);
- inOrder(node.right);
- }
-
- //BST的中序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void inOrderNR(){
- inOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void inOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- }
- }
- }
-
- //BST的后序遍历
- public void postOrder(){
- postOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void postOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- postOrder(node.left);
- postOrder(node.right);
- System.out.println(node.e);
- }
-
- //BST的后序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void postOrderNR(){
- postOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void postOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- }
- }
- }
-
- //枚举命令,GO表示访问元素,COUT表示打印元素
- private enum Command{GO,COUT};
-
- private class StackNode{
- Command command;
- Node node;
- StackNode(Command command,Node node){
- this.command=command;
- this.node=node;
- }
- }
-
- //BST的层序遍历
- public void levelOrder(){
- Queue q=new LinkedList<>();
- q.add(root);
- while(!q.isEmpty()){
- Node node=q.remove();
- System.out.println(node.e);
- if(node.left!=null){
- q.add(node.left);
- }
- if(node.right!=null){
- q.add(node.right);
- }
- }
- }
-
- //寻找BST中的最小元素
- public E min(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("BST is emmpty");
- }
- return min(root).e;
- }
-
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //寻找BST中的最大元素
- public E max(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("BST is emmpty");
- }
- return max(root).e;
- }
-
- private Node max(Node node){
- if(node.right==null){
- return node;
- }
- return max(node.right);
- }
-
- //删除BST中的最小值
- public E delMin(){
- E res=min();
- delMin(root);
- return res;
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的BST中的最小值元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
- return node;
- }
-
- //删除BST中的最大值
- public E delMax(){
- E res=max();
- delMax(root);
- return res;
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的BST中的最大值元素
- private Node delMax(Node node){
- if(node.right==null){
- Node nodeLeft=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return nodeLeft;
- }
- node.right=delMax(node.right);
- return node;
- }
-
- //删除BST中任意元素
- public void del(E e){
- root=del(root,e);
- }
-
- private Node del(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- node.left=del(node.left,e);
- return node;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0){
- node.right=del(node.right,e);
- return node;
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return rightNode;
- }
- //该节点只有左子树
- if(node.right==null){
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return leftNode;
- }
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- return s;
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- StringBuilder res=new StringBuilder();
- generateBST(root,0,res);
- return res.toString();
- }
-
- //生成以node为根节点,深度为depth的描述二叉树的字符串(利用前序遍历)
- private void generateBST(Node node,int depth,StringBuilder res){
- if(node==null){
- res.append(generateDepth(depth)+"null\n");
- return;
- }
- res.append(generateDepth(depth)+node.e+"\n");
- generateBST(node.left,depth+1,res);
- generateBST(node.right,depth+1,res);
- }
-
- private String generateDepth(int depth){
- StringBuilder res=new StringBuilder();
- for(int i=0;i bst=new BST<>();
- int[] nums={5,3,6,8,4,2};
- for(int num:nums){
- bst.add(num);
- }
- /**
- * 5
- * / \
- * 3 6
- * / \ \
- * 2 4 8
- */
- /* bst.preOrder();
- System.out.println();
- bst.preOrderNR();
- System.out.println("=====================");
- //bst.inOrder();
- //System.out.println();
- bst.inOrder();
- System.out.println();
- bst.inOrderNR();
- System.out.println("=====================");
-
- bst.postOrder();
- System.out.println();
- bst.postOrderNR();
- //System.out.println(bst);
-
- System.out.println(bst.min());
- System.out.println(bst.max());*/
- bst.levelOrder();
- System.out.println();
- bst.delMin();
- System.out.println(bst);
- bst.delMin();
- System.out.println(bst);
- bst.delMax();
- System.out.println(bst);
-
- bst.del(5);
- System.out.println(bst);
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/BSTMap.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/BSTMap.java
deleted file mode 100644
index bb08ca2..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/BSTMap.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,158 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.map;
-
-import code_05_setAndMap.set.BST;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/22.
- */
-public class BSTMap,V> implements Map{
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node left,right;
- public Node(K key,V value){
- this.key=key;
- this.value=value;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- //返回以node为根节点的二分搜索树中,key所在的节点
- private Node getNode(Node node,K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- return getNode(node.left,key);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- return getNode(node.right,key);
- }else{ //key.compareTo(node.key)==0
- return node;
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(K key, V value) {
- root=add(root,key,value);
- }
-
- private Node add(Node node,K key,V value){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(key,value);
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,key,value);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,key,value);
- }else{
- node.value=value;
- }
- return node;
- }
-
-
-
- @Override
- public V remove(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node!=null){
- root=del(root,key);
- size--;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- //获取Map中的最小的key
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的Map中的key最小的元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
- return node;
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的Map中的键值为key的元素
- private Node del(Node node, K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=del(node.left,key);
- return node;
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right= del(node.right,key);
- return node;
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return rightNode;
- }
- //该节点只有左子树
- if(node.right==null){
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return leftNode;
- }
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- return s;
- }
- }
-
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(K key) {
- return getNode(root,key)!=null;
- }
-
- @Override
- public V get(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- return node==null?null:node.value;
- }
-
- @Override
- public void set(K key, V newValue) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node==null){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key+"does not exist");
- }
- node.value=newValue;
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return size==0;
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/BSTMapMain.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/BSTMapMain.java
deleted file mode 100644
index e07b436..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/BSTMapMain.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,33 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.map;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/22.
- */
-public class BSTMapMain {
- public static void main(String[] args){
- System.out.println("Pride and Prejudice");
-
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("pride-and-prejudice.txt", words)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words.size());
-
- BSTMap map = new BSTMap<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (map.contains(word)){
- map.set(word, map.get(word) + 1);
- } else{
- map.add(word, 1);
- }
-
- }
-
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + map.getSize());
- System.out.println("Frequency of PRIDE: " + map.get("pride"));
- System.out.println("Frequency of PREJUDICE: " + map.get("prejudice"));
- }
-
- System.out.println();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/FileOperation.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/FileOperation.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 693dd9f..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/FileOperation.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,69 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.map;
-
-import java.io.BufferedInputStream;
-import java.io.File;
-import java.io.FileInputStream;
-import java.io.IOException;
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.Locale;
-import java.util.Scanner;
-
-// 文件相关操作
-public class FileOperation {
-
- // 读取文件名称为filename中的内容,并将其中包含的所有词语放进words中
- public static boolean readFile(String filename, ArrayList words){
-
- if (filename == null || words == null){
- System.out.println("filename is null or words is null");
- return false;
- }
-
- // 文件读取
- Scanner scanner;
-
- try {
- File file = new File(filename);
- if(file.exists()){
- FileInputStream fis = new FileInputStream(file);
- scanner = new Scanner(new BufferedInputStream(fis), "UTF-8");
- scanner.useLocale(Locale.ENGLISH);
- }
- else
- return false;
- }
- catch(IOException ioe){
- System.out.println("Cannot open " + filename);
- return false;
- }
-
- // 简单分词
- // 这个分词方式相对简陋, 没有考虑很多文本处理中的特殊问题
- // 在这里只做demo展示用
- if (scanner.hasNextLine()) {
-
- String contents = scanner.useDelimiter("\\A").next();
-
- int start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, 0);
- for (int i = start + 1; i <= contents.length(); )
- if (i == contents.length() || !Character.isLetter(contents.charAt(i))) {
- String word = contents.substring(start, i).toLowerCase();
- words.add(word);
- start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, i);
- i = start + 1;
- } else
- i++;
- }
-
- return true;
- }
-
- // 寻找字符串s中,从start的位置开始的第一个字母字符的位置
- private static int firstCharacterIndex(String s, int start){
-
- for( int i = start ; i < s.length() ; i ++ )
- if( Character.isLetter(s.charAt(i)) )
- return i;
- return s.length();
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/LinkedListMap.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/LinkedListMap.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 11d1bb1..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/LinkedListMap.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,107 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.map;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/22.
- */
-public class LinkedListMap implements Map{
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node next;
- public Node(K key,V value,Node next){
- this.key=key;
- this.value=value;
- this.next=next;
- }
- public Node(K key,V value){
- this(key,value,null);
- }
- public Node(K key){
- this(key,null,null);
- }
- public Node(){
- this(null,null,null);
- }
- }
-
- private Node dummyHead;
- private int size;
-
- public LinkedListMap(){
- dummyHead=new Node();
- size=0;
- }
-
- private Node getNode(K key){
- Node cur=dummyHead.next;
- while(cur!=null){
- if(cur.key.equals(key)){
- return cur;
- }
- cur=cur.next;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(K key, V value) {
- Node node=getNode(key);
- if(node==null){
- Node newNode=new Node(key,value);
- newNode.next=dummyHead.next;
- dummyHead.next=newNode;
- size++;
- }else{
- node.value=value;
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public V remove(K key) {
- Node prev=dummyHead;
- while(prev.next!=null){
- if(prev.next.key.equals(key)){
- break;
- }
- prev=prev.next;
- }
- if(prev.next!=null){
- Node delNode=prev.next;
- prev.next=delNode.next;
- delNode.next=null;
- size--;
- return delNode.value;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(K key) {
- return getNode(key)!=null;
- }
-
- @Override
- public V get(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(key);
- return node==null?null:node.value;
- }
-
- @Override
- public void set(K key, V newValue) {
- Node node=getNode(key);
- if(node==null){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key + "dose not exist");
- }
- node.value=newValue;
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return size==0;
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/LinkedListMapMain.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/LinkedListMapMain.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 38f11b1..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/LinkedListMapMain.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,33 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.map;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/22.
- */
-public class LinkedListMapMain {
- public static void main(String[] args){
- System.out.println("Pride and Prejudice");
-
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("pride-and-prejudice.txt", words)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words.size());
-
- LinkedListMap map = new LinkedListMap<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (map.contains(word)){
- map.set(word, map.get(word) + 1);
- } else{
- map.add(word, 1);
- }
-
- }
-
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + map.getSize());
- System.out.println("Frequency of PRIDE: " + map.get("pride"));
- System.out.println("Frequency of PREJUDICE: " + map.get("prejudice"));
- }
-
- System.out.println();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/Map.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/Map.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 9a89d20..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/map/Map.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,14 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.map;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/22.
- */
-public interface Map {
- void add(K key,V value);
- V remove(K key);
- boolean contains(K key);
- V get(K key);
- void set(K key,V newValue);
- int getSize();
- boolean isEmpty();
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/BST.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/BST.java
deleted file mode 100644
index a527ab3..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/BST.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,400 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.set;
-
-import java.util.LinkedList;
-import java.util.Queue;
-import java.util.Stack;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/17.
- */
-public class BST> {
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public BST(){
- root=null;
- size=0;
- }
-
- public int size(){
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size==0;
- }
-
- private class Node{
- public E e;
- public Node left,right;
- public Node(E e){
- this.e=e;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- }
- }
-
- /* //向BST中添加新元素e
- public void add(E e){
- if(root==null){
- root=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }else{
- add(root,e);
- }
- }
-
- //向以node为根节点的BST树种插入元素e
- private void add(Node node,E e){
- if(e.equals(node.e)){
- //插入元素与根节点相等,直接返回
- return;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0 && node.left==null){
- node.left=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0 && node.right==null){
- node.right=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- add(node.left,e);
- }else{ //e.compareTo(node.e)>0
- add(node.right,e);
- }
- }*/
-
- //向BST中添加新元素e
- public void add(E e){
- root=add(root,e);
- }
-
- //向以node为根节点的BST树种插入元素e
- //返回插入新元素后该BST的根
- private Node add(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(e);
- }
- //注意:对于e.equals(node.e)不做处理
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,e);
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,e);
- }
- return node;
- }
-
- //查看BST中是否包含元素e
- public boolean contains(E e){
- return contains(root,e);
- }
-
- //查看以node为根节点的BST中是否包含元素e
- private boolean contains(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- return false;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)==0){
- return true;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- return contains(node.left,e);
- }else{
- return contains(node.right,e);
- }
- }
-
- //BST的前序遍历
- public void preOrder(){
- preOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void preOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- System.out.println(node.e);
- preOrder(node.left);
- preOrder(node.right);
- }
-
- //BST的前序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void preOrderNR(){
- preOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void preOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- }
- }
- }
-
-
- //BST的中序遍历
- public void inOrder(){
- inOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void inOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- inOrder(node.left);
- System.out.println(node.e);
- inOrder(node.right);
- }
-
- //BST的中序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void inOrderNR(){
- inOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void inOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- }
- }
- }
-
- //BST的后序遍历
- public void postOrder(){
- postOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void postOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- postOrder(node.left);
- postOrder(node.right);
- System.out.println(node.e);
- }
-
- //BST的后序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void postOrderNR(){
- postOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void postOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- }
- }
- }
-
- //枚举命令,GO表示访问元素,COUT表示打印元素
- private enum Command{GO,COUT};
-
- private class StackNode{
- Command command;
- Node node;
- StackNode(Command command,Node node){
- this.command=command;
- this.node=node;
- }
- }
-
- //BST的层序遍历
- public void levelOrder(){
- Queue q=new LinkedList<>();
- q.add(root);
- while(!q.isEmpty()){
- Node node=q.remove();
- System.out.println(node.e);
- if(node.left!=null){
- q.add(node.left);
- }
- if(node.right!=null){
- q.add(node.right);
- }
- }
- }
-
- //寻找BST中的最小元素
- public E min(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("BST is emmpty");
- }
- return min(root).e;
- }
-
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //寻找BST中的最大元素
- public E max(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("BST is emmpty");
- }
- return max(root).e;
- }
-
- private Node max(Node node){
- if(node.right==null){
- return node;
- }
- return max(node.right);
- }
-
- //删除BST中的最小值
- public E delMin(){
- E res=min();
- delMin(root);
- return res;
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的BST中的最小值元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
- return node;
- }
-
- //删除BST中的最大值
- public E delMax(){
- E res=max();
- delMax(root);
- return res;
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的BST中的最大值元素
- private Node delMax(Node node){
- if(node.right==null){
- Node nodeLeft=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return nodeLeft;
- }
- node.right=delMax(node.right);
- return node;
- }
-
- //删除BST中任意元素
- public void del(E e){
- root=del(root,e);
- }
-
- private Node del(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- return del(node.left,e);
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0){
- return del(node.right,e);
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return rightNode;
- }
- //该节点只有左子树
- if(node.right==null){
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return leftNode;
- }
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- return s;
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- StringBuilder res=new StringBuilder();
- generateBST(root,0,res);
- return res.toString();
- }
-
- //生成以node为根节点,深度为depth的描述二叉树的字符串(利用前序遍历)
- private void generateBST(Node node,int depth,StringBuilder res){
- if(node==null){
- res.append(generateDepth(depth)+"null\n");
- return;
- }
- res.append(generateDepth(depth)+node.e+"\n");
- generateBST(node.left,depth+1,res);
- generateBST(node.right,depth+1,res);
- }
-
- private String generateDepth(int depth){
- StringBuilder res=new StringBuilder();
- for(int i=0;i> implements Set {
- private BST bst;
-
- public BSTSet(){
- bst=new BST<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(E e) {
- bst.add(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public void remove(E e) {
- bst.del(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(E e) {
- return bst.contains(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return bst.size();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return bst.isEmpty();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/BSTSetMain.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/BSTSetMain.java
deleted file mode 100644
index bdb1af6..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/BSTSetMain.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,37 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.set;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/20.
- */
-public class BSTSetMain {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- System.out.println("Pride and Prejudice");
-
- ArrayList words1 = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("pride-and-prejudice.txt", words1)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words1.size());
-
- BSTSet set1 = new BSTSet<>();
- for (String word : words1)
- set1.add(word);
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + set1.getSize());
- }
-
- System.out.println();
-
-
- System.out.println("A Tale of Two Cities");
-
- ArrayList words2 = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("a-tale-of-two-cities.txt", words2)){
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words2.size());
-
- BSTSet set2 = new BSTSet<>();
- for(String word: words2)
- set2.add(word);
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + set2.getSize());
- }
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/FileOperation.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/FileOperation.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 8ff447c..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/FileOperation.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,69 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.set;
-
-import java.io.BufferedInputStream;
-import java.io.File;
-import java.io.FileInputStream;
-import java.io.IOException;
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.Locale;
-import java.util.Scanner;
-
-// 文件相关操作
-public class FileOperation {
-
- // 读取文件名称为filename中的内容,并将其中包含的所有词语放进words中
- public static boolean readFile(String filename, ArrayList words){
-
- if (filename == null || words == null){
- System.out.println("filename is null or words is null");
- return false;
- }
-
- // 文件读取
- Scanner scanner;
-
- try {
- File file = new File(filename);
- if(file.exists()){
- FileInputStream fis = new FileInputStream(file);
- scanner = new Scanner(new BufferedInputStream(fis), "UTF-8");
- scanner.useLocale(Locale.ENGLISH);
- }
- else
- return false;
- }
- catch(IOException ioe){
- System.out.println("Cannot open " + filename);
- return false;
- }
-
- // 简单分词
- // 这个分词方式相对简陋, 没有考虑很多文本处理中的特殊问题
- // 在这里只做demo展示用
- if (scanner.hasNextLine()) {
-
- String contents = scanner.useDelimiter("\\A").next();
-
- int start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, 0);
- for (int i = start + 1; i <= contents.length(); )
- if (i == contents.length() || !Character.isLetter(contents.charAt(i))) {
- String word = contents.substring(start, i).toLowerCase();
- words.add(word);
- start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, i);
- i = start + 1;
- } else
- i++;
- }
-
- return true;
- }
-
- // 寻找字符串s中,从start的位置开始的第一个字母字符的位置
- private static int firstCharacterIndex(String s, int start){
-
- for( int i = start ; i < s.length() ; i ++ )
- if( Character.isLetter(s.charAt(i)) )
- return i;
- return s.length();
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/LinkedList.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/LinkedList.java
deleted file mode 100644
index fe5ea96..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/LinkedList.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,147 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.set;
-
-import code_02_linkedlist.Node;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/11/21.
- */
-public class LinkedList {
- private Node dummyHead;
- private int size;
-
- public LinkedList(){
- dummyHead=new Node(null,null);
- size=0;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size==0;
- }
-
- public int getSize(){
- return size;
- }
-
- //在链表index位置[从0开始]插入元素
- //这项操作在链表中并不常用
- public void add(int index,E e){
- if(index<0 || index> size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node prev=dummyHead;
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node cur=dummyHead.next;
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node cur=dummyHead.next;
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node prev=dummyHead;
- for(int i=0;i");
- cur=cur.next;
- }
- builder.append("NULL");
- return builder.toString();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/LinkedListSet.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/LinkedListSet.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 3e95e14..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/LinkedListSet.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,41 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.set;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/20.
- */
-public class LinkedListSet implements Set {
- private LinkedList linkedList;
-
- public LinkedListSet(){
- linkedList=new LinkedList<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(E e) {
- if(!contains(e)){
- linkedList.addFirst(e);
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public void remove(E e) {
- if(contains(e)){
- linkedList.removeElement(e);
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(E e) {
- return linkedList.contains(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return linkedList.getSize();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return linkedList.isEmpty();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/LinkedListSetMain.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/LinkedListSetMain.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 05dca22..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/LinkedListSetMain.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,37 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.set;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/20.
- */
-public class LinkedListSetMain {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- System.out.println("Pride and Prejudice");
-
- ArrayList words1 = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("pride-and-prejudice.txt", words1)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words1.size());
-
- LinkedListSet set1 = new LinkedListSet<>();
- for (String word : words1)
- set1.add(word);
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + set1.getSize());
- }
-
- System.out.println();
-
-
- System.out.println("A Tale of Two Cities");
-
- ArrayList words2 = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("a-tale-of-two-cities.txt", words2)){
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words2.size());
-
- LinkedListSet set2 = new LinkedListSet<>();
- for(String word: words2)
- set2.add(word);
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + set2.getSize());
- }
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/Set.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/Set.java
deleted file mode 100644
index aaaca11..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_05_setAndMap/set/Set.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,12 +0,0 @@
-package code_05_setAndMap.set;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/20.
- */
-public interface Set {
- void add(E e);
- void remove(E e);
- boolean contains(E e);
- int getSize();
- boolean isEmpty();
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/HeapMain.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/HeapMain.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 413af1b..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/HeapMain.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,71 +0,0 @@
-package code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue;
-
-import java.util.Random;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/24.
- */
-public class HeapMain {
- private static double testHeap(Integer[] testData, boolean isHeapify){
-
- long startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- MaxHeap maxHeap;
- if(isHeapify){
- maxHeap = new MaxHeap<>(testData);
- }else{
- maxHeap = new MaxHeap<>();
- for(int num: testData) {
- maxHeap.add(num);
- }
- }
-
- int[] arr = new int[testData.length];
- for(int i = 0 ; i < testData.length ; i ++){
- arr[i] = maxHeap.extractMax();
- }
-
- for(int i = 1 ; i < testData.length ; i ++){
- if(arr[i-1] < arr[i]){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Error");
- }
- }
- System.out.println("Test MaxHeap completed.");
-
- long endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- return (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {/*
- int n=1000000;
- MaxHeap maxHeap=new MaxHeap<>();
- Random random=new Random();
- for(int i=0;i> {
- private E[] data;
- private int size;
- //记录堆中元素个数
-
- public MaxHeap(int capacity){
- data=(E[])new Comparable[capacity];
- }
-
- public MaxHeap(){
- this(10);
- }
-
- //heapify:将任意数组整理成堆的形状
- public MaxHeap(E[] arr){
- data=(E[])new Comparable[arr.length];
- for(int i=0;i=0;i--){
- sink(i);
- }
- }
-
- //返回堆中元素个数
- public int size(){
- return size;
- }
-
- //判断堆是否为空
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size==0;
- }
-
- //返回一个索引的父节点的索引
- private int parent(int index){
- if(index==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("index-0 does not have parment");
- }
- return (index-1)/2;
- }
-
- //返回一个索引的左孩子节点的索引
- private int leftChild(int index){
- return 2*index+1;
- }
-
- //返回一个索引的左孩子节点的索引
- private int rightChild(int index){
- return 2*index+2;
- }
-
- private void swap(int i,int j){
- if(i<0 || i>=size || j<0 || j>=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- E tmp=data[i];
- data[i]=data[j];
- data[j]=tmp;
- }
-
- //调整数组大小
- private void resize(int newCapacity){
- E[] newData=(E[])new Comparable[newCapacity];
- for(int i=0;i0 && data[k].compareTo(data[parent(k)])>0){
- swap(k,parent(k));
- k=parent(k);
- }
- }
-
- //查看堆中最大元素
- public E findMax(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Can not find max when maxheap is empty!");
- }
- return data[0];
- }
-
- public E extractMax(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("MaxHeap is empty");
- }
- E ret=findMax();
- swap(0,size-1);
- size--;
- sink(0);
- return ret;
- }
-
- private void sink(int k){
- while (leftChild(k)=0){
- break;
- }
- swap(k,j);
- k=j;
- }
- }
-
- //replace:取出最大元素后,放入新元素
- public E replace(E e){
- E ret=data[0];
- data[0]=e;
- sink(0);
- return ret;
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/PriorityQueue.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/PriorityQueue.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 9522286..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/PriorityQueue.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,37 +0,0 @@
-package code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/25.
- */
-public class PriorityQueue> implements Queue{
- private MaxHeap maxHeap;
-
- public PriorityQueue(){
- maxHeap=new MaxHeap<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return maxHeap.size();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return maxHeap.isEmpty();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void enqueue(E e) {
- maxHeap.add(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public E dequeue() {
- return maxHeap.extractMax();
- }
-
- @Override
- public E getFront() {
- return maxHeap.findMax();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/Queue.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/Queue.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 3c23eba..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/Queue.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,12 +0,0 @@
-package code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/11/17.
- */
-public interface Queue {
- int getSize();
- boolean isEmpty();
- void enqueue(E e);
- E dequeue();
- E getFront();
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/Solution347.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/Solution347.java
deleted file mode 100644
index d6a9048..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue/Solution347.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,50 +0,0 @@
-package code_06_heapAndPriorityQueue;
-
-import org.junit.Test;
-
-import java.lang.annotation.Target;
-import java.util.*;
-import java.util.PriorityQueue;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/25.
- */
-public class Solution347 {
- public List topKFrequent(int[] nums, int k) {
- //统计数字出现的频率
- Map map=new HashMap<>();
- for(int num:nums){
- int freq=map.get(num)==null?0:map.get(num);
- map.put(num,++freq);
- }
-
- //维护一个优先队列,最小堆,维护当前频率最高的元素
- PriorityQueue priorityQueue=new PriorityQueue<>(new Comparator() {
- @Override
- public int compare(Integer a, Integer b) {
- return map.get(a)-map.get(b);
- }
- });
- //pair存的是(频率,元素)的形式
- for(Integer num:map.keySet()){
- priorityQueue.add(num);
- if(priorityQueue.size()>k) {
- priorityQueue.poll();
- }
- }
-
- List ret=new ArrayList<>();
- while(!priorityQueue.isEmpty()){
- ret.add(priorityQueue.poll());
- }
- Collections.reverse(ret);
- return ret;
- }
-
- @Test
- public void test(){
- int[] nums = {1,1,1,2,2,3};
- int k = 2;
- System.out.println(topKFrequent(nums,k));
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_07_segmentTree/Main.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_07_segmentTree/Main.java
deleted file mode 100644
index e54fb91..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_07_segmentTree/Main.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,27 +0,0 @@
-package code_07_segmentTree;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/26.
- */
-public class Main {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- Integer[] nums={0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9};
- /*SegmentTree segmentTree=new SegmentTree(nums, new Merger() {
- @Override
- public Integer meger(Integer a, Integer b){
- return a+b;
- }
- });*/
- //使用Lamda表达式
- SegmentTree segmentTree=new SegmentTree<>(nums,(a, b) -> a+b);
- System.out.println(segmentTree);
-
- System.out.println(segmentTree.query(0,1));
- System.out.println(segmentTree.query(1,4));
- System.out.println(segmentTree.query(0,6));
- System.out.println(segmentTree.query(0,7));
-
- segmentTree.set(0,10);
- System.out.println(segmentTree);
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_07_segmentTree/Merger.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_07_segmentTree/Merger.java
deleted file mode 100644
index ed67dff..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_07_segmentTree/Merger.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,8 +0,0 @@
-package code_07_segmentTree;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/26.
- */
-public interface Merger {
- E meger(E a,E b);
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_07_segmentTree/SegmentTree.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_07_segmentTree/SegmentTree.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 51e4c7d..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_07_segmentTree/SegmentTree.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,124 +0,0 @@
-package code_07_segmentTree;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/26.
- */
-public class SegmentTree {
- private E[] tree; //存储线段树中数据
- private E[] data;
- private Merger merger;
-
- public SegmentTree(E[] arr, Merger merger){
- this.merger=merger;
- data=(E[])new Object[arr.length];
- for(int i=0;i=data.length
- || queryR<0 || queryR>=data.length || queryL>queryR){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- return query(0,0,data.length-1,queryL,queryR);
- }
-
- private E query(int treeIndex,int l,int r,int queryL,int queryR){
- if(l==queryL && r==queryR){
- return tree[treeIndex];
- }
- int mid=l+(r-l)/2;
- int leftChildIndex=leftChild(treeIndex);
- int rightChildIndex=rightChild(treeIndex);
- if(queryL>=mid+1){
- //只要在右子树中查找
- return query(rightChildIndex,mid+1,r,queryL,queryR);
- }else if(queryR<=mid){
- //只要在左子树中查找
- return query(leftChildIndex,l,mid,queryL,queryR);
- }
- E leftResult=query(leftChildIndex,l,mid,queryL,mid);
- E rightResult=query(rightChildIndex,mid+1,r,mid+1,queryR);
- return merger.meger(leftResult,rightResult);
- }
-
- public void set(int index,E e){
- if(index<0 || index>=data.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- set(0,0,data.length-1,index,e);
- }
-
- private void set(int treeIndex,int l,int r,int index, E e){
- if(l==r){
- tree[treeIndex]=e;
- return;
- }
- int mid=l+(r-l)/2;
- int leftChildIndex=leftChild(treeIndex);
- int rightChildIndex=rightChild(treeIndex);
- if(index>=mid+1){
- set(rightChildIndex,mid+1,r,index,e);
- }else{
- set(leftChildIndex,l,mid,index,e);
- }
- tree[treeIndex]=merger.meger(tree[leftChildIndex],tree[rightChildIndex]);
- }
-
- public int getSize(){
- return data.length;
- }
-
- public E get(int index){
- if(index<0 || index>=data.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- return data[index];
- }
-
- //在完全二叉树的数组表示中,获取左孩子节点的索引
- private int leftChild(int index){
- return 2*index+1;
- }
-
- //在完全二叉树的数组表示中,获取右孩子节点的索引
- private int rightChild(int index){
- return 2*index+2;
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- StringBuilder res=new StringBuilder();
- res.append("[");
- for(int i=0;i> {
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public BST(){
- root=null;
- size=0;
- }
-
- public int size(){
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size==0;
- }
-
- private class Node{
- public E e;
- public Node left,right;
- public Node(E e){
- this.e=e;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- }
- }
-
- /* //向BST中添加新元素e
- public void add(E e){
- if(root==null){
- root=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }else{
- add(root,e);
- }
- }
-
- //向以node为根节点的BST树种插入元素e
- private void add(Node node,E e){
- if(e.equals(node.e)){
- //插入元素与根节点相等,直接返回
- return;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0 && node.left==null){
- node.left=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0 && node.right==null){
- node.right=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- add(node.left,e);
- }else{ //e.compareTo(node.e)>0
- add(node.right,e);
- }
- }*/
-
- //向BST中添加新元素e
- public void add(E e){
- root=add(root,e);
- }
-
- //向以node为根节点的BST树种插入元素e
- //返回插入新元素后该BST的根
- private Node add(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(e);
- }
- //注意:对于e.equals(node.e)不做处理
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,e);
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,e);
- }
- return node;
- }
-
- //查看BST中是否包含元素e
- public boolean contains(E e){
- return contains(root,e);
- }
-
- //查看以node为根节点的BST中是否包含元素e
- private boolean contains(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- return false;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)==0){
- return true;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- return contains(node.left,e);
- }else{
- return contains(node.right,e);
- }
- }
-
- //BST的前序遍历
- public void preOrder(){
- preOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void preOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- System.out.println(node.e);
- preOrder(node.left);
- preOrder(node.right);
- }
-
- //BST的前序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void preOrderNR(){
- preOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void preOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- }
- }
- }
-
-
- //BST的中序遍历
- public void inOrder(){
- inOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void inOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- inOrder(node.left);
- System.out.println(node.e);
- inOrder(node.right);
- }
-
- //BST的中序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void inOrderNR(){
- inOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void inOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- }
- }
- }
-
- //BST的后序遍历
- public void postOrder(){
- postOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void postOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- postOrder(node.left);
- postOrder(node.right);
- System.out.println(node.e);
- }
-
- //BST的后序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void postOrderNR(){
- postOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void postOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- }
- }
- }
-
- //枚举命令,GO表示访问元素,COUT表示打印元素
- private enum Command{GO,COUT};
-
- private class StackNode{
- Command command;
- Node node;
- StackNode(Command command,Node node){
- this.command=command;
- this.node=node;
- }
- }
-
- //BST的层序遍历
- public void levelOrder(){
- Queue q=new LinkedList<>();
- q.add(root);
- while(!q.isEmpty()){
- Node node=q.remove();
- System.out.println(node.e);
- if(node.left!=null){
- q.add(node.left);
- }
- if(node.right!=null){
- q.add(node.right);
- }
- }
- }
-
- //寻找BST中的最小元素
- public E min(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("BST is emmpty");
- }
- return min(root).e;
- }
-
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //寻找BST中的最大元素
- public E max(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("BST is emmpty");
- }
- return max(root).e;
- }
-
- private Node max(Node node){
- if(node.right==null){
- return node;
- }
- return max(node.right);
- }
-
- //删除BST中的最小值
- public E delMin(){
- E res=min();
- delMin(root);
- return res;
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的BST中的最小值元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
- return node;
- }
-
- //删除BST中的最大值
- public E delMax(){
- E res=max();
- delMax(root);
- return res;
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的BST中的最大值元素
- private Node delMax(Node node){
- if(node.right==null){
- Node nodeLeft=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return nodeLeft;
- }
- node.right=delMax(node.right);
- return node;
- }
-
- //删除BST中任意元素
- public void del(E e){
- root=del(root,e);
- }
-
- private Node del(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- return del(node.left,e);
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0){
- return del(node.right,e);
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return rightNode;
- }
- //该节点只有左子树
- if(node.right==null){
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return leftNode;
- }
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- return s;
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- StringBuilder res=new StringBuilder();
- generateBST(root,0,res);
- return res.toString();
- }
-
- //生成以node为根节点,深度为depth的描述二叉树的字符串(利用前序遍历)
- private void generateBST(Node node,int depth,StringBuilder res){
- if(node==null){
- res.append(generateDepth(depth)+"null\n");
- return;
- }
- res.append(generateDepth(depth)+node.e+"\n");
- generateBST(node.left,depth+1,res);
- generateBST(node.right,depth+1,res);
- }
-
- private String generateDepth(int depth){
- StringBuilder res=new StringBuilder();
- for(int i=0;i> implements Set {
- private BST bst;
-
- public BSTSet(){
- bst=new BST<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(E e) {
- bst.add(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public void remove(E e) {
- bst.del(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(E e) {
- return bst.contains(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return bst.size();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return bst.isEmpty();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/FileOperation.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/FileOperation.java
deleted file mode 100644
index f700ac7..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/FileOperation.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,69 +0,0 @@
-package code_08_trie;
-
-import java.io.BufferedInputStream;
-import java.io.File;
-import java.io.FileInputStream;
-import java.io.IOException;
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.Locale;
-import java.util.Scanner;
-
-// 文件相关操作
-public class FileOperation {
-
- // 读取文件名称为filename中的内容,并将其中包含的所有词语放进words中
- public static boolean readFile(String filename, ArrayList words){
-
- if (filename == null || words == null){
- System.out.println("filename is null or words is null");
- return false;
- }
-
- // 文件读取
- Scanner scanner;
-
- try {
- File file = new File(filename);
- if(file.exists()){
- FileInputStream fis = new FileInputStream(file);
- scanner = new Scanner(new BufferedInputStream(fis), "UTF-8");
- scanner.useLocale(Locale.ENGLISH);
- }
- else
- return false;
- }
- catch(IOException ioe){
- System.out.println("Cannot open " + filename);
- return false;
- }
-
- // 简单分词
- // 这个分词方式相对简陋, 没有考虑很多文本处理中的特殊问题
- // 在这里只做demo展示用
- if (scanner.hasNextLine()) {
-
- String contents = scanner.useDelimiter("\\A").next();
-
- int start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, 0);
- for (int i = start + 1; i <= contents.length(); )
- if (i == contents.length() || !Character.isLetter(contents.charAt(i))) {
- String word = contents.substring(start, i).toLowerCase();
- words.add(word);
- start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, i);
- i = start + 1;
- } else
- i++;
- }
-
- return true;
- }
-
- // 寻找字符串s中,从start的位置开始的第一个字母字符的位置
- private static int firstCharacterIndex(String s, int start){
-
- for( int i = start ; i < s.length() ; i ++ )
- if( Character.isLetter(s.charAt(i)) )
- return i;
- return s.length();
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/Main.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/Main.java
deleted file mode 100644
index b9b1007..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/Main.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,42 +0,0 @@
-package code_08_trie;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/26.
- */
-public class Main {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- System.out.println("Mix of two fiction");
-
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("mix.txt", words)){
- long startTime = System.nanoTime();
- BSTSet set = new BSTSet<>();
- for(String word: words){
- set.add(word);
- }
- for(String word: words){
- set.contains(word);
- }
- long endTime = System.nanoTime();
- double time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + set.getSize());
- System.out.println("BSTSet: " + time + " s");
-
- // ---
- startTime = System.nanoTime();
- TrieSet trieSet = new TrieSet();
- for(String word: words){
- trieSet.add(word);
- }
- for(String word: words){
- trieSet.contains(word);
- }
- endTime = System.nanoTime();
- time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + trieSet.getSize());
- System.out.println("Trie: " + time + " s");
- }
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/MapSum.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/MapSum.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 77eca0c..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/MapSum.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,66 +0,0 @@
-package code_08_trie;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/28.
- */
-public class MapSum {
- private class Node{
- public Node[] next;
- public int value;
-
- public Node(int value){
- this.next=new Node[26];
- this.value=value;
- }
-
- public Node(){
- this(0);
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
-
- /** Initialize your data structure here. */
- public MapSum() {
- root=new Node();
- }
-
- public void insert(String key, int val) {
- Node cur=root;
- for(int i=0;i {
- void add(E e);
- void remove(E e);
- boolean contains(E e);
- int getSize();
- boolean isEmpty();
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/Trie.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/Trie.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 24e8ce1..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/Trie.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,83 +0,0 @@
-package code_08_trie;
-
-import java.util.TreeMap;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/26.
- */
-public class Trie {
- private class Node{
- public boolean isWord;//标记该字符是否是单词结尾
- public TreeMap next;
- public Node(boolean isWord){
- this.isWord=isWord;
- next=new TreeMap<>();
- }
- public Node(){
- this(false);
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public Trie(){
- root=new Node();
- size=0;
- }
-
- //获取Trie中存储的单词数量
- public int getSize(){
- return size;
- }
-
- //向Trie中添加一个新单词word
- public void add(String word){
- Node cur=root;
- for(int i=0;i{
- private Trie trie;
-
- public TrieSet(){
- trie=new Trie();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(String s) {
- trie.add(s);
- }
-
- @Override
- public void remove(String s) {
- //....
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(String s) {
- return trie.contains(s);
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return trie.getSize();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return trie.getSize()==0;
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/WordDictionary.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/WordDictionary.java
deleted file mode 100644
index b519e12..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_08_trie/WordDictionary.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,73 +0,0 @@
-package code_08_trie;
-
-import java.util.TreeMap;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/27.
- */
-public class WordDictionary {
- private class Node{
- public boolean isWord;//标记该字符是否是单词结尾
- public TreeMap next;
- public Node(boolean isWord){
- this.isWord=isWord;
- next=new TreeMap<>();
- }
- public Node(){
- this(false);
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
-
- /** Initialize your data structure here. */
- public WordDictionary() {
- root=new Node();
- }
-
- /** Adds a word into the data structure. */
- public void addWord(String word) {
- Node cur=root;
- for(int i=0;i=id.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("p is out of bound");
- }
- return id[p];
- }
-
- //时间复杂度:O(n)
- @Override
- public void unionElements(int p, int q) {
- int pId=find(p);
- int qId=find(q);
- if(pId==qId){
- return;
- }
- //连接两个元素后,如果它们是在两个不同的集合中,
- //则现在由于p、q的连接,就会成为一个集合
- for(int i=0;i=parent.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("p is out of bound.");
- }
- while(p!=parent[p]){
- p=parent[p];
- }
- //返回的是p所在的集合的编号,同时也是p集合非根节点
- return p;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isConnected(int p, int q) {
- //根节点相同,就是同一个集合
- return find(p)==find(q);
- }
-
-
- @Override
- public void unionElements(int p, int q) {
- int pRoot=find(p);
- int qRoot=find(q);
- if(pRoot==qRoot){
- return;
- }
- //将p所在集合的根节点指向q所在集合的根节点
- parent[pRoot]=qRoot;
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_09_unionFind/UnionFind3.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_09_unionFind/UnionFind3.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 19d1d6d..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_09_unionFind/UnionFind3.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,69 +0,0 @@
-package code_09_unionFind;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/28.
- */
-public class UnionFind3 implements UF{
- //parent[i]表示i所指向的父节点
- private int[] parent;
- //sz[i]表示i元素所在的集合的元素个数
- private int[] sz;
-
- public UnionFind3(int size){
- parent=new int[size];
- sz=new int[size];
- //初始化时,将每个元素看成一个树节点,它们指向自身,构成森林
- for(int i=0;i=parent.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("p is out of bound.");
- }
- while(p!=parent[p]){
- p=parent[p];
- }
- //返回的是p所在的集合的编号,同时也是p集合非根节点
- return p;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isConnected(int p, int q) {
- //根节点相同,就是同一个集合
- return find(p)==find(q);
- }
-
- //根据两个元素所在的集合的元素个数的不同,判断合并方向。
- //将元素少的集合合并到元素多的集合上,降低树的高度。
- @Override
- public void unionElements(int p, int q) {
- int pRoot=find(p);
- int qRoot=find(q);
- if(pRoot==qRoot){
- return;
- }
- //将p所在集合的根节点指向q所在集合的根节点
- //parent[pRoot]=qRoot;
-
- //改进:
- if(sz[pRoot]=parent.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("p is out of bound.");
- }
- while(p!=parent[p]){
- p=parent[p];
- }
- //返回的是p所在的集合的编号,同时也是p集合非根节点
- return p;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isConnected(int p, int q) {
- //根节点相同,就是同一个集合
- return find(p)==find(q);
- }
-
- //根据两个元素所在的集合的树的深度不同,判断合并方向。
- //将深度浅的集合合并到深度深的的集合上,降低树的高度。
- @Override
- public void unionElements(int p, int q) {
- int pRoot=find(p);
- int qRoot=find(q);
- if(pRoot==qRoot){
- return;
- }
- //将p所在集合的根节点指向q所在集合的根节点
- //parent[pRoot]=qRoot;
-
- /*改进:
- if(sz[pRoot]rank[qRoot]){
- parent[qRoot]=pRoot;
- }else{ //rank[pRoot]==rank[qRoot]
- parent[pRoot]=qRoot;
- //pRoot的父指针指向qRoot,则qRoot所在的集合深度+1
- rank[qRoot]+=1;
- }
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_09_unionFind/UnionFind5.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_09_unionFind/UnionFind5.java
deleted file mode 100644
index c5ad6a3..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_09_unionFind/UnionFind5.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,83 +0,0 @@
-package code_09_unionFind;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/28.
- */
-public class UnionFind5 implements UF{
- //parent[i]表示i所指向的父节点
- private int[] parent;
-
- //rank[i]表示根节点为i的树的深度
- private int[] rank;
-
- public UnionFind5(int size){
- parent=new int[size];
- rank=new int[size];
- //初始化时,将每个元素看成一个树节点,它们指向自身,构成森林
- for(int i=0;i=parent.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("p is out of bound.");
- }
- while(p!=parent[p]){
- parent[p]=parent[parent[p]];
- p=parent[p];
- }
- //返回的是p所在的集合的编号,同时也是p集合非根节点
- return p;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isConnected(int p, int q) {
- //根节点相同,就是同一个集合
- return find(p)==find(q);
- }
-
- //根据两个元素所在的集合的树的深度不同,判断合并方向。
- //将深度浅的集合合并到深度深的的集合上,降低树的高度。
- @Override
- public void unionElements(int p, int q) {
- int pRoot=find(p);
- int qRoot=find(q);
- if(pRoot==qRoot){
- return;
- }
- //将p所在集合的根节点指向q所在集合的根节点
- //parent[pRoot]=qRoot;
-
- /*改进:
- if(sz[pRoot]rank[qRoot]){
- parent[qRoot]=pRoot;
- }else{ //rank[pRoot]==rank[qRoot]
- parent[pRoot]=qRoot;
- //pRoot的父指针指向qRoot,则qRoot所在的集合深度+1
- rank[qRoot]+=1;
- }
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_09_unionFind/UnionFind6.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_09_unionFind/UnionFind6.java
deleted file mode 100644
index ff53dc5..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_09_unionFind/UnionFind6.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,81 +0,0 @@
-package code_09_unionFind;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/28.
- */
-public class UnionFind6 implements UF{
- //parent[i]表示i所指向的父节点
- private int[] parent;
-
- //rank[i]表示根节点为i的树的深度
- private int[] rank;
-
- public UnionFind6(int size){
- parent=new int[size];
- rank=new int[size];
- //初始化时,将每个元素看成一个树节点,它们指向自身,构成森林
- for(int i=0;i=parent.length){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("p is out of bound.");
- }
- if(p!=parent[p]){
- parent[p]=find(parent[p]);
- }
- return parent[p];
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isConnected(int p, int q) {
- //根节点相同,就是同一个集合
- return find(p)==find(q);
- }
-
- //根据两个元素所在的集合的树的深度不同,判断合并方向。
- //将深度浅的集合合并到深度深的的集合上,降低树的高度。
- @Override
- public void unionElements(int p, int q) {
- int pRoot=find(p);
- int qRoot=find(q);
- if(pRoot==qRoot){
- return;
- }
- //将p所在集合的根节点指向q所在集合的根节点
- //parent[pRoot]=qRoot;
-
- /*改进:
- if(sz[pRoot]rank[qRoot]){
- parent[qRoot]=pRoot;
- }else{ //rank[pRoot]==rank[qRoot]
- parent[pRoot]=qRoot;
- //pRoot的父指针指向qRoot,则qRoot所在的集合深度+1
- rank[qRoot]+=1;
- }
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/AVLMain.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/AVLMain.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 2cbce4d..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/AVLMain.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,40 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-public class AVLMain {
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- System.out.println("Pride and Prejudice");
-
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("pride-and-prejudice.txt", words)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words.size());
-
- AVLTree map = new AVLTree<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (map.contains(word)){
- map.set(word, map.get(word) + 1);
- } else{
- map.add(word, 1);
- }
- }
-
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + map.getSize());
- System.out.println("Frequency of PRIDE: " + map.get("pride"));
- System.out.println("Frequency of PREJUDICE: " + map.get("prejudice"));
-
- System.out.println("is bst:"+map.isBST());
- System.out.println("is balanced:"+map.isBalancedTree());
-
- for(String word:words){
- map.remove(word);
- if(!map.isBST() || !map.isBalancedTree()){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Error");
- }
- }
- }
-
- System.out.println();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/AVLTree.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/AVLTree.java
deleted file mode 100644
index aa763bb..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/AVLTree.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,303 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl;
-
-import code_05_setAndMap.map.Map;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.List;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/29.
- */
-public class AVLTree,V>{
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node left,right;
- public int height;
- public Node(K key,V value){
- this.key=key;
- this.value=value;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- //叶子节点的高度是1
- height=1;
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public void add(K key, V value) {
- root=add(root,key,value);
- }
-
- //检查该树是否是平衡二叉树
- public boolean isBST(){
- List keys=new ArrayList<>();
- inOrder(root,keys);
- for(int i=1;i0){
- return false;
- }
- }
- return true;
- }
-
- //判断该二叉树是否是一棵平衡二叉树
- public boolean isBalancedTree(){
- return isBalancedTree(root);
- }
-
- private boolean isBalancedTree(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return true;
- }
- int balancedFactor=getBalancedFactor(node);
- if(Math.abs(balancedFactor)>1){
- return false;
- }
- return isBalancedTree(node.left) && isBalancedTree(node.right);
- }
-
- private void inOrder(Node node, List keys){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- inOrder(node.left,keys);
- keys.add(node.key);
- inOrder(node.right,keys);
- }
-
- //计算节点的高度
- private int getNodeHeight(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return 0;
- }
- return node.height;
- }
-
- //获取节点的平衡因子,左子树高度-右子树高度
- private int getBalancedFactor(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return 0;
- }
- return getNodeHeight(node.left)-getNodeHeight(node.right);
- }
-
- // 对节点y进行向右旋转操作,返回旋转后新的根节点x
- // y x
- // / \ / \
- // x T4 向右旋转 (y) z y
- // / \ - - - - - - - -> / \ / \
- // z T3 T1 T2 T3 T4
- // / \
- // T1 T2
- private Node rightRotate(Node y){
- Node x=y.left;
- Node T3=x.right;
-
- //向右旋转
- x.right=y;
- y.left=T3;
-
- //维护树的高度
- y.height=1 + Math.max(getNodeHeight(y.left),getNodeHeight(y.right));
- x.height=1 + Math.max(getNodeHeight(x.left),getNodeHeight(x.right));
-
- return x;
- }
-
- // 对节点y进行向左旋转操作,返回旋转后新的根节点x
- // y x
- // / \ / \
- // T1 x 向左旋转 (y) y z
- // / \ - - - - - - - -> / \ / \
- // T2 z T1 T2 T3 T4
- // / \
- // T3 T4
- private Node leftRotate(Node y){
- Node x=y.right;
- Node T2=x.left;
-
- //向左旋转
- x.left=y;
- y.right=T2;
-
- //维护高度
- y.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(y.left),getNodeHeight(y.right));
- x.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(x.left),getNodeHeight(x.right));
-
- return x;
- }
-
- private Node add(Node node,K key,V value){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(key,value);
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,key,value);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,key,value);
- }else{
- node.value=value;
- }
- //更新height
- node.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(node.left),getNodeHeight(node.right));
-
- //维护平衡
- return keepBalance(node);
- }
-
- //从AVL中删除值为key的元素
- public V remove(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node!=null){
- root=del(root,key);
- size--;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- //获取Map中的最小的key
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的Map中的key最小的元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
-
- //更新height
- node.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(node.left),getNodeHeight(node.right));
-
- //维护平衡
- return keepBalance(node);
- }
-
- ////删除以node为根结点的Map中的键值为key的元素
- private Node del(Node node, K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- //记录删除元素后,该BST的新的根节点
- Node retNode=null;
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=del(node.left,key);
- retNode=node;
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=del(node.right,key);
- retNode=node;
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- retNode=rightNode;
- }else if(node.right==null){ //该节点只有左子树
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- retNode=leftNode;
- }else{
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- retNode=s;
- }
- }
- if(retNode==null){
- return retNode;
- }
- //更新height
- retNode.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(retNode.left),getNodeHeight(retNode.right));
-
- //保持平衡
- return keepBalance(retNode);
- }
-
- //维护以node为根节点的二叉树是平衡二叉树
- private Node keepBalance(Node node){
- //计算平衡因子
- int balancedFactor=getBalancedFactor(node);
-
- //平衡维护
- //LL
- if(balancedFactor>1 && getBalancedFactor(node.left)>=0){
- return rightRotate(node);
- }
- //RR
- if(balancedFactor<-1 && getBalancedFactor(node.right)<=0){
- return leftRotate(node);
- }
- //LR
- if(balancedFactor>1 && getBalancedFactor(node.left)<0){
- Node x=node.left;
- node.left=leftRotate(x);
- //LL
- return rightRotate(node);
- }
- //RL
- if(balancedFactor<-1 && getBalancedFactor(node.right)>0){
- Node x=node.right;
- node.right=rightRotate(x);
- //RR
- return leftRotate(node);
- }
- return node;
- }
-
- public boolean contains(K key) {
- return getNode(root,key)!=null;
- }
-
- public V get(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- return node==null?null:node.value;
- }
-
- public void set(K key, V newValue) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node==null){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key+"does not exist");
- }
- node.value=newValue;
- }
-
- //返回以node为根节点的二分搜索树中,key所在的节点
- private Node getNode(Node node,K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- return getNode(node.left,key);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- return getNode(node.right,key);
- }else{ //key.compareTo(node.key)==0
- return node;
- }
- }
-
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return size==0;
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/FileOperation.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/FileOperation.java
deleted file mode 100644
index a3c293f..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/FileOperation.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,69 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl;
-
-import java.io.BufferedInputStream;
-import java.io.File;
-import java.io.FileInputStream;
-import java.io.IOException;
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.Locale;
-import java.util.Scanner;
-
-// 文件相关操作
-public class FileOperation {
-
- // 读取文件名称为filename中的内容,并将其中包含的所有词语放进words中
- public static boolean readFile(String filename, ArrayList words){
-
- if (filename == null || words == null){
- System.out.println("filename is null or words is null");
- return false;
- }
-
- // 文件读取
- Scanner scanner;
-
- try {
- File file = new File(filename);
- if(file.exists()){
- FileInputStream fis = new FileInputStream(file);
- scanner = new Scanner(new BufferedInputStream(fis), "UTF-8");
- scanner.useLocale(Locale.ENGLISH);
- }
- else
- return false;
- }
- catch(IOException ioe){
- System.out.println("Cannot open " + filename);
- return false;
- }
-
- // 简单分词
- // 这个分词方式相对简陋, 没有考虑很多文本处理中的特殊问题
- // 在这里只做demo展示用
- if (scanner.hasNextLine()) {
-
- String contents = scanner.useDelimiter("\\A").next();
-
- int start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, 0);
- for (int i = start + 1; i <= contents.length(); )
- if (i == contents.length() || !Character.isLetter(contents.charAt(i))) {
- String word = contents.substring(start, i).toLowerCase();
- words.add(word);
- start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, i);
- i = start + 1;
- } else
- i++;
- }
-
- return true;
- }
-
- // 寻找字符串s中,从start的位置开始的第一个字母字符的位置
- private static int firstCharacterIndex(String s, int start){
-
- for( int i = start ; i < s.length() ; i ++ )
- if( Character.isLetter(s.charAt(i)) )
- return i;
- return s.length();
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/Main.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/Main.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 3388f80..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/Main.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,65 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl;
-
-import code_10_avl.map.BSTMap;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.Collections;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/29.
- */
-public class Main {
- public static void main(String[] args) {
- System.out.println("Pride and Prejudice");
-
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("pride-and-prejudice.txt", words)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words.size());
-
- Collections.sort(words);
-
- // Test BST
- long startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- BSTMap bst = new BSTMap<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (bst.contains(word)){
- bst.set(word, bst.get(word) + 1);
- }else{
- bst.add(word, 1);
- }
- }
-
- for(String word: words){
- bst.contains(word);
- }
-
- long endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- double time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("BST: " + time + " s");
-
-
- // Test AVL Tree
- startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- AVLTree avl = new AVLTree<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (avl.contains(word)){
- avl.set(word, avl.get(word) + 1);
- }else{
- avl.add(word, 1);
- }
- }
-
- for(String word: words){
- avl.contains(word);
- }
- endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("AVL: " + time + " s");
- }
- System.out.println();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/AVLMap.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/AVLMap.java
deleted file mode 100644
index b189c20..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/AVLMap.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,50 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.map;
-
-import code_10_avl.AVLTree;
-import code_10_avl.map.Map;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/31.
- */
-public class AVLMap,V> implements Map {
- private AVLTree avlTree;
-
- public AVLMap(){
- avlTree=new AVLTree<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(K key, V value) {
- avlTree.add(key,value);
- }
-
- @Override
- public V remove(K key) {
- return avlTree.remove(key);
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(K key) {
- return avlTree.contains(key);
- }
-
- @Override
- public V get(K key) {
- return avlTree.get(key);
- }
-
- @Override
- public void set(K key, V newValue) {
- avlTree.set(key,newValue);
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return avlTree.getSize();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return avlTree.isEmpty();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/BSTMap.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/BSTMap.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 7900419..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/BSTMap.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,156 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.map;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/22.
- */
-public class BSTMap,V> implements Map{
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node left,right;
- public Node(K key,V value){
- this.key=key;
- this.value=value;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- //返回以node为根节点的二分搜索树中,key所在的节点
- private Node getNode(Node node,K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- return getNode(node.left,key);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- return getNode(node.right,key);
- }else{ //key.compareTo(node.key)==0
- return node;
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(K key, V value) {
- root=add(root,key,value);
- }
-
- private Node add(Node node,K key,V value){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(key,value);
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,key,value);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,key,value);
- }else{
- node.value=value;
- }
- return node;
- }
-
-
-
- @Override
- public V remove(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node!=null){
- root=del(root,key);
- size--;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- //获取Map中的最小的key
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的Map中的key最小的元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
- return node;
- }
-
- ////删除以node为根结点的Map中的键值为key的元素
- private Node del(Node node, K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=del(node.left,key);
- return node;
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=del(node.right,key);
- return node;
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return rightNode;
- }
- //该节点只有左子树
- if(node.right==null){
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return leftNode;
- }
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- return s;
- }
- }
-
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(K key) {
- return getNode(root,key)!=null;
- }
-
- @Override
- public V get(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- return node==null?null:node.value;
- }
-
- @Override
- public void set(K key, V newValue) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node==null){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key+" does not exist");
- }
- node.value=newValue;
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return size==0;
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/LinkedListMap.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/LinkedListMap.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 51dd852..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/LinkedListMap.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,107 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.map;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/22.
- */
-public class LinkedListMap implements Map {
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node next;
- public Node(K key,V value,Node next){
- this.key=key;
- this.value=value;
- this.next=next;
- }
- public Node(K key,V value){
- this(key,value,null);
- }
- public Node(K key){
- this(key,null,null);
- }
- public Node(){
- this(null,null,null);
- }
- }
-
- private Node dummyHead;
- private int size;
-
- public LinkedListMap(){
- dummyHead=new Node();
- size=0;
- }
-
- private Node getNode(K key){
- Node cur=dummyHead.next;
- while(cur!=null){
- if(cur.key.equals(key)){
- return cur;
- }
- cur=cur.next;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(K key, V value) {
- Node node=getNode(key);
- if(node==null){
- Node newNode=new Node(key,value);
- newNode.next=dummyHead.next;
- dummyHead.next=newNode;
- size++;
- }else{
- node.value=value;
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public V remove(K key) {
- Node prev=dummyHead;
- while(prev.next!=null){
- if(prev.next.key.equals(key)){
- break;
- }
- prev=prev.next;
- }
- if(prev.next!=null){
- Node delNode=prev.next;
- prev.next=delNode.next;
- delNode.next=null;
- size--;
- return delNode.value;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(K key) {
- return getNode(key)!=null;
- }
-
- @Override
- public V get(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(key);
- return node==null?null:node.value;
- }
-
- @Override
- public void set(K key, V newValue) {
- Node node=getNode(key);
- if(node==null){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key + "dose not exist");
- }
- node.value=newValue;
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return size==0;
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/Map.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/Map.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 0318fd4..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/Map.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,14 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.map;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/22.
- */
-public interface Map {
- void add(K key, V value);
- V remove(K key);
- boolean contains(K key);
- V get(K key);
- void set(K key, V newValue);
- int getSize();
- boolean isEmpty();
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/MapMain.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/MapMain.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 845da8b..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/map/MapMain.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,57 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.map;
-
-import code_10_avl.FileOperation;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/31.
- */
-public class MapMain {
- private static double testMap(Map map, String filename){
-
- long startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- System.out.println(filename);
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile(filename, words)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words.size());
-
- for (String word : words){
- if(map.contains(word))
- map.set(word, map.get(word) + 1);
- else
- map.add(word, 1);
- }
-
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + map.getSize());
- System.out.println("Frequency of PRIDE: " + map.get("pride"));
- System.out.println("Frequency of PREJUDICE: " + map.get("prejudice"));
- }
-
- long endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- return (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
-
- String filename = "pride-and-prejudice.txt";
-
- BSTMap bstMap = new BSTMap<>();
- double time1 = testMap(bstMap, filename);
- System.out.println("BST Map: " + time1 + " s");
-
- System.out.println();
-
- LinkedListMap linkedListMap = new LinkedListMap<>();
- double time2 = testMap(linkedListMap, filename);
- System.out.println("Linked List Map: " + time2 + " s");
-
- System.out.println();
-
- AVLMap avlMap = new AVLMap<>();
- double time3 = testMap(avlMap, filename);
- System.out.println("AVL Map: " + time3 + " s");
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/AVLSet.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/AVLSet.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 03e47d7..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/AVLSet.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,39 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.set;
-
-import code_10_avl.AVLTree;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/31.
- */
-public class AVLSet> implements Set{
- private AVLTree avlTree;
-
- public AVLSet(){
- avlTree=new AVLTree<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(K k) {
- avlTree.add(k,null);
- }
-
- @Override
- public void remove(K k) {
- avlTree.remove(k);
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(K k) {
- return avlTree.contains(k);
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return avlTree.getSize();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return avlTree.isEmpty();
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/BST.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/BST.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 0f805bf..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/BST.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,400 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.set;
-
-import java.util.LinkedList;
-import java.util.Queue;
-import java.util.Stack;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/17.
- */
-public class BST> {
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public BST(){
- root=null;
- size=0;
- }
-
- public int size(){
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size==0;
- }
-
- private class Node{
- public E e;
- public Node left,right;
- public Node(E e){
- this.e=e;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- }
- }
-
- /* //向BST中添加新元素e
- public void add(E e){
- if(root==null){
- root=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }else{
- add(root,e);
- }
- }
-
- //向以node为根节点的BST树种插入元素e
- private void add(Node node,E e){
- if(e.equals(node.e)){
- //插入元素与根节点相等,直接返回
- return;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0 && node.left==null){
- node.left=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0 && node.right==null){
- node.right=new Node(e);
- size++;
- return;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- add(node.left,e);
- }else{ //e.compareTo(node.e)>0
- add(node.right,e);
- }
- }*/
-
- //向BST中添加新元素e
- public void add(E e){
- root=add(root,e);
- }
-
- //向以node为根节点的BST树种插入元素e
- //返回插入新元素后该BST的根
- private Node add(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(e);
- }
- //注意:对于e.equals(node.e)不做处理
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,e);
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,e);
- }
- return node;
- }
-
- //查看BST中是否包含元素e
- public boolean contains(E e){
- return contains(root,e);
- }
-
- //查看以node为根节点的BST中是否包含元素e
- private boolean contains(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- return false;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)==0){
- return true;
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- return contains(node.left,e);
- }else{
- return contains(node.right,e);
- }
- }
-
- //BST的前序遍历
- public void preOrder(){
- preOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void preOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- System.out.println(node.e);
- preOrder(node.left);
- preOrder(node.right);
- }
-
- //BST的前序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void preOrderNR(){
- preOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void preOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- }
- }
- }
-
-
- //BST的中序遍历
- public void inOrder(){
- inOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void inOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- inOrder(node.left);
- System.out.println(node.e);
- inOrder(node.right);
- }
-
- //BST的中序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void inOrderNR(){
- inOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void inOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- }
- }
- }
-
- //BST的后序遍历
- public void postOrder(){
- postOrder(root);
- }
-
- private void postOrder(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- postOrder(node.left);
- postOrder(node.right);
- System.out.println(node.e);
- }
-
- //BST的后序遍历(非递归方式)
- public void postOrderNR(){
- postOrderNR(root);
- }
-
- private void postOrderNR(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- Stack stack=new Stack<>();
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,node));
- while(!stack.isEmpty()){
- StackNode stackNode=stack.pop();
- Node n=stackNode.node;
- Command command=stackNode.command;
- if(command== Command.COUT){
- System.out.println(stackNode.node.e);
- }else{
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.COUT,n));
- if(n.right!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.right));
- }
- if(n.left!=null){
- stack.push(new StackNode(Command.GO,n.left));
- }
- }
- }
- }
-
- //枚举命令,GO表示访问元素,COUT表示打印元素
- private enum Command{GO,COUT};
-
- private class StackNode{
- Command command;
- Node node;
- StackNode(Command command,Node node){
- this.command=command;
- this.node=node;
- }
- }
-
- //BST的层序遍历
- public void levelOrder(){
- Queue q=new LinkedList<>();
- q.add(root);
- while(!q.isEmpty()){
- Node node=q.remove();
- System.out.println(node.e);
- if(node.left!=null){
- q.add(node.left);
- }
- if(node.right!=null){
- q.add(node.right);
- }
- }
- }
-
- //寻找BST中的最小元素
- public E min(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("BST is emmpty");
- }
- return min(root).e;
- }
-
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //寻找BST中的最大元素
- public E max(){
- if(size==0){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("BST is emmpty");
- }
- return max(root).e;
- }
-
- private Node max(Node node){
- if(node.right==null){
- return node;
- }
- return max(node.right);
- }
-
- //删除BST中的最小值
- public E delMin(){
- E res=min();
- delMin(root);
- return res;
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的BST中的最小值元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
- return node;
- }
-
- //删除BST中的最大值
- public E delMax(){
- E res=max();
- delMax(root);
- return res;
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的BST中的最大值元素
- private Node delMax(Node node){
- if(node.right==null){
- Node nodeLeft=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return nodeLeft;
- }
- node.right=delMax(node.right);
- return node;
- }
-
- //删除BST中任意元素
- public void del(E e){
- root=del(root,e);
- }
-
- private Node del(Node node,E e){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(e.compareTo(node.e)<0){
- return del(node.left,e);
- }else if(e.compareTo(node.e)>0){
- return del(node.right,e);
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return rightNode;
- }
- //该节点只有左子树
- if(node.right==null){
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return leftNode;
- }
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- return s;
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public String toString() {
- StringBuilder res=new StringBuilder();
- generateBST(root,0,res);
- return res.toString();
- }
-
- //生成以node为根节点,深度为depth的描述二叉树的字符串(利用前序遍历)
- private void generateBST(Node node,int depth,StringBuilder res){
- if(node==null){
- res.append(generateDepth(depth)+"null\n");
- return;
- }
- res.append(generateDepth(depth)+node.e+"\n");
- generateBST(node.left,depth+1,res);
- generateBST(node.right,depth+1,res);
- }
-
- private String generateDepth(int depth){
- StringBuilder res=new StringBuilder();
- for(int i=0;i> implements Set {
- private BST bst;
-
- public BSTSet(){
- bst=new BST<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(E e) {
- bst.add(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public void remove(E e) {
- bst.del(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(E e) {
- return bst.contains(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return bst.size();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return bst.isEmpty();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/LinkedList.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/LinkedList.java
deleted file mode 100644
index e0c1deb..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/LinkedList.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,147 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.set;
-
-import code_02_linkedlist.Node;
-
-/**
- * Created by DHA on 2018/11/21.
- */
-public class LinkedList {
- private Node dummyHead;
- private int size;
-
- public LinkedList(){
- dummyHead=new Node(null,null);
- size=0;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size==0;
- }
-
- public int getSize(){
- return size;
- }
-
- //在链表index位置[从0开始]插入元素
- //这项操作在链表中并不常用
- public void add(int index,E e){
- if(index<0 || index> size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node prev=dummyHead;
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node cur=dummyHead.next;
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node cur=dummyHead.next;
- for(int i=0;i=size){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException("Index is illegal");
- }
- Node prev=dummyHead;
- for(int i=0;i");
- cur=cur.next;
- }
- builder.append("NULL");
- return builder.toString();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/LinkedListSet.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/LinkedListSet.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 413e04b..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/LinkedListSet.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,41 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.set;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/20.
- */
-public class LinkedListSet implements Set {
- private LinkedList linkedList;
-
- public LinkedListSet(){
- linkedList=new LinkedList<>();
- }
-
- @Override
- public void add(E e) {
- if(!contains(e)){
- linkedList.addFirst(e);
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public void remove(E e) {
- if(contains(e)){
- linkedList.removeElement(e);
- }
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean contains(E e) {
- return linkedList.contains(e);
- }
-
- @Override
- public int getSize() {
- return linkedList.getSize();
- }
-
- @Override
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return linkedList.isEmpty();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/Set.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/Set.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 38dad54..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/Set.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,12 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.set;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/20.
- */
-public interface Set {
- void add(E e);
- void remove(E e);
- boolean contains(E e);
- int getSize();
- boolean isEmpty();
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/SetMain.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/SetMain.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 2d45774..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_10_avl/set/SetMain.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,50 +0,0 @@
-package code_10_avl.set;
-
-import code_10_avl.FileOperation;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/31.
- */
-public class SetMain {
- private static double testSet(Set set, String filename){
-
- long startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- System.out.println(filename);
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile(filename, words)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words.size());
-
- for (String word : words)
- set.add(word);
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + set.getSize());
- }
-
- long endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- return (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
-
- String filename = "pride-and-prejudice.txt";
-
- BSTSet bstSet = new BSTSet<>();
- double time1 = testSet(bstSet, filename);
- System.out.println("BST Set: " + time1 + " s");
-
- System.out.println();
-
- LinkedListSet linkedListSet = new LinkedListSet<>();
- double time2 = testSet(linkedListSet, filename);
- System.out.println("Linked List Set: " + time2 + " s");
-
- System.out.println();
-
- AVLSet avlSet = new AVLSet<>();
- double time3 = testSet(avlSet, filename);
- System.out.println("AVL Set: " + time3 + " s");
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/AVLTree.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/AVLTree.java
deleted file mode 100644
index b58e58c..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/AVLTree.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,301 +0,0 @@
-package code_11_redBlackTree;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.List;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/29.
- */
-public class AVLTree,V>{
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node left,right;
- public int height;
- public Node(K key,V value){
- this.key=key;
- this.value=value;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- //叶子节点的高度是1
- height=1;
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public void add(K key, V value) {
- root=add(root,key,value);
- }
-
- //检查该树是否是平衡二叉树
- public boolean isBST(){
- List keys=new ArrayList<>();
- inOrder(root,keys);
- for(int i=1;i0){
- return false;
- }
- }
- return true;
- }
-
- //判断该二叉树是否是一棵平衡二叉树
- public boolean isBalancedTree(){
- return isBalancedTree(root);
- }
-
- private boolean isBalancedTree(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return true;
- }
- int balancedFactor=getBalancedFactor(node);
- if(Math.abs(balancedFactor)>1){
- return false;
- }
- return isBalancedTree(node.left) && isBalancedTree(node.right);
- }
-
- private void inOrder(Node node, List keys){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- inOrder(node.left,keys);
- keys.add(node.key);
- inOrder(node.right,keys);
- }
-
- //计算节点的高度
- private int getNodeHeight(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return 0;
- }
- return node.height;
- }
-
- //获取节点的平衡因子,左子树高度-右子树高度
- private int getBalancedFactor(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return 0;
- }
- return getNodeHeight(node.left)-getNodeHeight(node.right);
- }
-
- // 对节点y进行向右旋转操作,返回旋转后新的根节点x
- // y x
- // / \ / \
- // x T4 向右旋转 (y) z y
- // / \ - - - - - - - -> / \ / \
- // z T3 T1 T2 T3 T4
- // / \
- // T1 T2
- private Node rightRotate(Node y){
- Node x=y.left;
- Node T3=x.right;
-
- //向右旋转
- x.right=y;
- y.left=T3;
-
- //维护树的高度
- y.height=1 + Math.max(getNodeHeight(y.left),getNodeHeight(y.right));
- x.height=1 + Math.max(getNodeHeight(x.left),getNodeHeight(x.right));
-
- return x;
- }
-
- // 对节点y进行向左旋转操作,返回旋转后新的根节点x
- // y x
- // / \ / \
- // T1 x 向左旋转 (y) y z
- // / \ - - - - - - - -> / \ / \
- // T2 z T1 T2 T3 T4
- // / \
- // T3 T4
- private Node leftRotate(Node y){
- Node x=y.right;
- Node T2=x.left;
-
- //向左旋转
- x.left=y;
- y.right=T2;
-
- //维护高度
- y.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(y.left),getNodeHeight(y.right));
- x.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(x.left),getNodeHeight(x.right));
-
- return x;
- }
-
- private Node add(Node node,K key,V value){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(key,value);
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,key,value);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,key,value);
- }else{
- node.value=value;
- }
- //更新height
- node.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(node.left),getNodeHeight(node.right));
-
- //维护平衡
- return keepBalance(node);
- }
-
- //从AVL中删除值为key的元素
- public V remove(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node!=null){
- root=del(root,key);
- size--;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- //获取Map中的最小的key
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的Map中的key最小的元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
-
- //更新height
- node.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(node.left),getNodeHeight(node.right));
-
- //维护平衡
- return keepBalance(node);
- }
-
- ////删除以node为根结点的Map中的键值为key的元素
- private Node del(Node node, K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- //记录删除元素后,该BST的新的根节点
- Node retNode=null;
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=del(node.left,key);
- retNode=node;
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=del(node.right,key);
- retNode=node;
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- retNode=rightNode;
- }else if(node.right==null){ //该节点只有左子树
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- retNode=leftNode;
- }else{
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- retNode=s;
- }
- }
- if(retNode==null){
- return retNode;
- }
- //更新height
- retNode.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(retNode.left),getNodeHeight(retNode.right));
-
- //保持平衡
- return keepBalance(retNode);
- }
-
- //维护以node为根节点的二叉树是平衡二叉树
- private Node keepBalance(Node node){
- //计算平衡因子
- int balancedFactor=getBalancedFactor(node);
-
- //平衡维护
- //LL
- if(balancedFactor>1 && getBalancedFactor(node.left)>=0){
- return rightRotate(node);
- }
- //RR
- if(balancedFactor<-1 && getBalancedFactor(node.right)<=0){
- return leftRotate(node);
- }
- //LR
- if(balancedFactor>1 && getBalancedFactor(node.left)<0){
- Node x=node.left;
- node.left=leftRotate(x);
- //LL
- return rightRotate(node);
- }
- //RL
- if(balancedFactor<-1 && getBalancedFactor(node.right)>0){
- Node x=node.right;
- node.right=rightRotate(x);
- //RR
- return leftRotate(node);
- }
- return node;
- }
-
- public boolean contains(K key) {
- return getNode(root,key)!=null;
- }
-
- public V get(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- return node==null?null:node.value;
- }
-
- public void set(K key, V newValue) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node==null){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key+"does not exist");
- }
- node.value=newValue;
- }
-
- //返回以node为根节点的二分搜索树中,key所在的节点
- private Node getNode(Node node,K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- return getNode(node.left,key);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- return getNode(node.right,key);
- }else{ //key.compareTo(node.key)==0
- return node;
- }
- }
-
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return size==0;
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/BST.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/BST.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 1fadb62..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/BST.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,194 +0,0 @@
-package code_11_redBlackTree;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-public class BST, V> {
-
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node left, right;
-
- public Node(K key, V value){
- this.key = key;
- this.value = value;
- left = null;
- right = null;
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public BST(){
- root = null;
- size = 0;
- }
-
- public int getSize(){
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size == 0;
- }
-
- // 向二分搜索树中添加新的元素(key, value)
- public void add(K key, V value){
- root = add(root, key, value);
- }
-
- // 向以node为根的二分搜索树中插入元素(key, value),递归算法
- // 返回插入新节点后二分搜索树的根
- private Node add(Node node, K key, V value){
-
- if(node == null){
- size ++;
- return new Node(key, value);
- }
-
- if(key.compareTo(node.key) < 0)
- node.left = add(node.left, key, value);
- else if(key.compareTo(node.key) > 0)
- node.right = add(node.right, key, value);
- else // key.compareTo(node.key) == 0
- node.value = value;
-
- return node;
- }
-
- // 返回以node为根节点的二分搜索树中,key所在的节点
- private Node getNode(Node node, K key){
-
- if(node == null)
- return null;
-
- if(key.equals(node.key))
- return node;
- else if(key.compareTo(node.key) < 0)
- return getNode(node.left, key);
- else // if(key.compareTo(node.key) > 0)
- return getNode(node.right, key);
- }
-
- public boolean contains(K key){
- return getNode(root, key) != null;
- }
-
- public V get(K key){
-
- Node node = getNode(root, key);
- return node == null ? null : node.value;
- }
-
- public void set(K key, V newValue){
- Node node = getNode(root, key);
- if(node == null)
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key + " doesn't exist!");
-
- node.value = newValue;
- }
-
- // 返回以node为根的二分搜索树的最小值所在的节点
- private Node minimum(Node node){
- if(node.left == null){
- return node;
- }
- return minimum(node.left);
- }
-
- // 删除掉以node为根的二分搜索树中的最小节点
- // 返回删除节点后新的二分搜索树的根
- private Node removeMin(Node node){
-
- if(node.left == null){
- Node rightNode = node.right;
- node.right = null;
- size --;
- return rightNode;
- }
-
- node.left = removeMin(node.left);
- return node;
- }
-
- // 从二分搜索树中删除键为key的节点
- public V remove(K key){
-
- Node node = getNode(root, key);
- if(node != null){
- root = remove(root, key);
- return node.value;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- private Node remove(Node node, K key){
-
- if( node == null )
- return null;
-
- if( key.compareTo(node.key) < 0 ){
- node.left = remove(node.left , key);
- return node;
- }
- else if(key.compareTo(node.key) > 0 ){
- node.right = remove(node.right, key);
- return node;
- }
- else{ // key.compareTo(node.key) == 0
-
- // 待删除节点左子树为空的情况
- if(node.left == null){
- Node rightNode = node.right;
- node.right = null;
- size --;
- return rightNode;
- }
-
- // 待删除节点右子树为空的情况
- if(node.right == null){
- Node leftNode = node.left;
- node.left = null;
- size --;
- return leftNode;
- }
-
- // 待删除节点左右子树均不为空的情况
-
- // 找到比待删除节点大的最小节点, 即待删除节点右子树的最小节点
- // 用这个节点顶替待删除节点的位置
- Node successor = minimum(node.right);
- successor.right = removeMin(node.right);
- successor.left = node.left;
-
- node.left = node.right = null;
-
- return successor;
- }
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args){
-
- System.out.println("Pride and Prejudice");
-
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("pride-and-prejudice.txt", words)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words.size());
-
- BST map = new BST<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (map.contains(word))
- map.set(word, map.get(word) + 1);
- else
- map.add(word, 1);
- }
-
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + map.getSize());
- System.out.println("Frequency of PRIDE: " + map.get("pride"));
- System.out.println("Frequency of PREJUDICE: " + map.get("prejudice"));
- }
-
- System.out.println();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/FileOperation.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/FileOperation.java
deleted file mode 100644
index e0eb286..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/FileOperation.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,69 +0,0 @@
-package code_11_redBlackTree;
-
-import java.io.BufferedInputStream;
-import java.io.File;
-import java.io.FileInputStream;
-import java.io.IOException;
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.Locale;
-import java.util.Scanner;
-
-// 文件相关操作
-public class FileOperation {
-
- // 读取文件名称为filename中的内容,并将其中包含的所有词语放进words中
- public static boolean readFile(String filename, ArrayList words){
-
- if (filename == null || words == null){
- System.out.println("filename is null or words is null");
- return false;
- }
-
- // 文件读取
- Scanner scanner;
-
- try {
- File file = new File(filename);
- if(file.exists()){
- FileInputStream fis = new FileInputStream(file);
- scanner = new Scanner(new BufferedInputStream(fis), "UTF-8");
- scanner.useLocale(Locale.ENGLISH);
- }
- else
- return false;
- }
- catch(IOException ioe){
- System.out.println("Cannot open " + filename);
- return false;
- }
-
- // 简单分词
- // 这个分词方式相对简陋, 没有考虑很多文本处理中的特殊问题
- // 在这里只做demo展示用
- if (scanner.hasNextLine()) {
-
- String contents = scanner.useDelimiter("\\A").next();
-
- int start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, 0);
- for (int i = start + 1; i <= contents.length(); )
- if (i == contents.length() || !Character.isLetter(contents.charAt(i))) {
- String word = contents.substring(start, i).toLowerCase();
- words.add(word);
- start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, i);
- i = start + 1;
- } else
- i++;
- }
-
- return true;
- }
-
- // 寻找字符串s中,从start的位置开始的第一个字母字符的位置
- private static int firstCharacterIndex(String s, int start){
-
- for( int i = start ; i < s.length() ; i ++ )
- if( Character.isLetter(s.charAt(i)) )
- return i;
- return s.length();
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/Main.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/Main.java
deleted file mode 100644
index e72c395..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/Main.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,86 +0,0 @@
-package code_11_redBlackTree;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-/**
- - 对于完全随机的数据,建议使用普通的BST。但是在极端情况下,会退化成链表!(或者高度不平衡)
-
- - 对于查询较多的使用情况,建议使用AVL树。
-
- - 红黑树牺牲了平衡性(2log n的高度),统计性能更优(增删改查所有的操作)
- */
-public class Main {
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
-
- System.out.println("Pride and Prejudice");
-
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("pride-and-prejudice.txt", words)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words.size());
-
- // Collections.sort(words);
-
- // Test BST
- long startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- BST bst = new BST<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (bst.contains(word))
- bst.set(word, bst.get(word) + 1);
- else
- bst.add(word, 1);
- }
-
- for(String word: words)
- bst.contains(word);
-
- long endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- double time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("BST: " + time + " s");
-
-
- // Test AVL
- startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- AVLTree avl = new AVLTree<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (avl.contains(word))
- avl.set(word, avl.get(word) + 1);
- else
- avl.add(word, 1);
- }
-
- for(String word: words)
- avl.contains(word);
-
- endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("AVL: " + time + " s");
-
-
- // Test RBTree
- startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- RBTree rbt = new RBTree<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (rbt.contains(word))
- rbt.set(word, rbt.get(word) + 1);
- else
- rbt.add(word, 1);
- }
-
- for(String word: words)
- rbt.contains(word);
-
- endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("RBTree: " + time + " s");
- }
-
- System.out.println();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/Main2.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/Main2.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 7e5cbaa..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/Main2.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,63 +0,0 @@
-package code_11_redBlackTree;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.Random;
-
-/**
- - 对于完全随机的数据,建议使用普通的BST。但是在极端情况下,会退化成链表!(或者高度不平衡)
-
- - 对于查询较多的使用情况,建议使用AVL树。
-
- - 红黑树牺牲了平衡性(2log n的高度),统计性能更优(增删改查所有的操作)
- */
-public class Main2 {
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
-
- // int n = 20000000;
- int n = 2000000;
-
- Random random = new Random(n);
- ArrayList testData = new ArrayList<>(n);
- for(int i = 0 ; i < n ; i ++)
- testData.add(random.nextInt(Integer.MAX_VALUE));
-
- // Test BST
- long startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- BST bst = new BST<>();
- for (Integer x: testData)
- bst.add(x, null);
-
- long endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- double time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("BST: " + time + " s");
-
-
- // Test AVL
- startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- AVLTree avl = new AVLTree<>();
- for (Integer x: testData)
- avl.add(x, null);
-
- endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("AVL: " + time + " s");
-
-
- // Test RBTree
- startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- RBTree rbt = new RBTree<>();
- for (Integer x: testData)
- rbt.add(x, null);
-
- endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("RBTree: " + time + " s");
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/Main3.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/Main3.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 373bec8..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/Main3.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,48 +0,0 @@
-package code_11_redBlackTree;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.Random;
-
-/**
- - 对于完全随机的数据,建议使用普通的BST。但是在极端情况下,会退化成链表!(或者高度不平衡)
-
- - 对于查询较多的使用情况,建议使用AVL树。
-
- - 红黑树牺牲了平衡性(2log n的高度),统计性能更优(增删改查所有的操作)
- */
-public class Main3 {
-
- public static void main(String[] args) {
-
- int n = 2000000;
-
- ArrayList testData = new ArrayList<>(n);
- for(int i = 0 ; i < n ; i ++)
- testData.add(i);
-
- // Test AVL
- long startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- AVLTree avl = new AVLTree<>();
- for (Integer x: testData)
- avl.add(x, null);
-
- long endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- double time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("AVL: " + time + " s");
-
-
- // Test RBTree
- startTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- RBTree rbt = new RBTree<>();
- for (Integer x: testData)
- rbt.add(x, null);
-
- endTime = System.nanoTime();
-
- time = (endTime - startTime) / 1000000000.0;
- System.out.println("RBTree: " + time + " s");
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/RBTree.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/RBTree.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 2372d56..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_11_redBlackTree/RBTree.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,237 +0,0 @@
-package code_11_redBlackTree;
-
-import java.io.BufferedReader;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/31.
- */
-public class RBTree,V>{
- private static final boolean RED=true;
- private static final boolean BLACK=false;
-
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node left,right;
- public boolean color;
- public Node(K key,V value){
- this.key=key;
- this.value=value;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- this.color=RED;
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- //判断节点是否是红色
- private boolean isRed(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return BLACK;
- }
- return node.color;
- }
-
- //左旋转
- // node x
- // / \ 左旋转 / \
- // T1 x ---------> node T3
- // / \ / \
- // T2 T3 T1 T2
- private Node leftRotate(Node node){
- Node x=node.right;
-
- //左旋转
- node.right=x.left;
- x.left=node;
-
- //改变节点颜色
- x.color=node.color;
- node.color=RED;
-
- return x;
- }
-
- //右旋转
- // node x
- // / \ 右旋转 / \
- // x T2 -------> y node
- // / \ / \
- // y T1 T1 T2
- private Node rightRotate(Node node) {
- Node x=node.left;
-
- //右旋转
- node.left=x.right;
- x.right=node;
-
- x.color=node.color;
- node.color=RED;
-
- return x;
- }
-
- //颜色翻转
- private void flipColors(Node node){
- node.color=RED;
- node.left.color=BLACK;
- node.right.color=BLACK;
- }
-
- public void add(K key, V value) {
- root=add(root,key,value);
- //红黑树性质: 2.根节点是黑色的
- root.color=BLACK;
- }
-
- private Node add(Node node,K key,V value){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(key,value);
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,key,value);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,key,value);
- }else{
- node.value=value;
- }
-
- // 黑
- // /
- // 红
- // \
- // 红
- //左旋转
- if(isRed(node.right) && !isRed(node.left)){
- node=leftRotate(node);
- }
-
- // 黑
- // /
- // 红
- // /
- // 红
- //右旋转
- if(isRed(node.left) && isRed(node.left.left)){
- node=rightRotate(node);
- }
-
- // 黑
- // / \
- // 红 红
- // 颜色翻转
- if(isRed(node.left) && isRed(node.right)){
- flipColors(node);
- }
- return node;
- }
-
- public V remove(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node!=null){
- root=del(root,key);
- size--;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- //返回以node为根节点的二分搜索树中,key所在的节点
- private Node getNode(Node node,K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- return getNode(node.left,key);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- return getNode(node.right,key);
- }else{ //key.compareTo(node.key)==0
- return node;
- }
- }
-
- //获取Map中的最小的key
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的Map中的key最小的元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
- return node;
- }
-
- ////删除以node为根结点的Map中的键值为key的元素
- private Node del(Node node, K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=del(node.left,key);
- return node;
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=del(node.right,key);
- return node;
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return rightNode;
- }
- //该节点只有左子树
- if(node.right==null){
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- return leftNode;
- }
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- return s;
- }
- }
-
- public boolean contains(K key) {
- return getNode(root,key)!=null;
- }
-
- public V get(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- return node==null?null:node.value;
- }
-
- public void set(K key, V newValue) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node==null){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key+" does not exist");
- }
- node.value=newValue;
- }
-
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return size==0;
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/AVLTree.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/AVLTree.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 4482639..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/AVLTree.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,301 +0,0 @@
-package code_12_hashTable;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.List;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2018/12/29.
- */
-public class AVLTree,V>{
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node left,right;
- public int height;
- public Node(K key,V value){
- this.key=key;
- this.value=value;
- this.left=null;
- this.right=null;
- //叶子节点的高度是1
- height=1;
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public void add(K key, V value) {
- root=add(root,key,value);
- }
-
- //检查该树是否是平衡二叉树
- public boolean isBST(){
- List keys=new ArrayList<>();
- inOrder(root,keys);
- for(int i=1;i0){
- return false;
- }
- }
- return true;
- }
-
- //判断该二叉树是否是一棵平衡二叉树
- public boolean isBalancedTree(){
- return isBalancedTree(root);
- }
-
- private boolean isBalancedTree(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return true;
- }
- int balancedFactor=getBalancedFactor(node);
- if(Math.abs(balancedFactor)>1){
- return false;
- }
- return isBalancedTree(node.left) && isBalancedTree(node.right);
- }
-
- private void inOrder(Node node, List keys){
- if(node==null){
- return;
- }
- inOrder(node.left,keys);
- keys.add(node.key);
- inOrder(node.right,keys);
- }
-
- //计算节点的高度
- private int getNodeHeight(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return 0;
- }
- return node.height;
- }
-
- //获取节点的平衡因子,左子树高度-右子树高度
- private int getBalancedFactor(Node node){
- if(node==null){
- return 0;
- }
- return getNodeHeight(node.left)-getNodeHeight(node.right);
- }
-
- // 对节点y进行向右旋转操作,返回旋转后新的根节点x
- // y x
- // / \ / \
- // x T4 向右旋转 (y) z y
- // / \ - - - - - - - -> / \ / \
- // z T3 T1 T2 T3 T4
- // / \
- // T1 T2
- private Node rightRotate(Node y){
- Node x=y.left;
- Node T3=x.right;
-
- //向右旋转
- x.right=y;
- y.left=T3;
-
- //维护树的高度
- y.height=1 + Math.max(getNodeHeight(y.left),getNodeHeight(y.right));
- x.height=1 + Math.max(getNodeHeight(x.left),getNodeHeight(x.right));
-
- return x;
- }
-
- // 对节点y进行向左旋转操作,返回旋转后新的根节点x
- // y x
- // / \ / \
- // T1 x 向左旋转 (y) y z
- // / \ - - - - - - - -> / \ / \
- // T2 z T1 T2 T3 T4
- // / \
- // T3 T4
- private Node leftRotate(Node y){
- Node x=y.right;
- Node T2=x.left;
-
- //向左旋转
- x.left=y;
- y.right=T2;
-
- //维护高度
- y.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(y.left),getNodeHeight(y.right));
- x.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(x.left),getNodeHeight(x.right));
-
- return x;
- }
-
- private Node add(Node node,K key,V value){
- if(node==null){
- size++;
- return new Node(key,value);
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=add(node.left,key,value);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=add(node.right,key,value);
- }else{
- node.value=value;
- }
- //更新height
- node.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(node.left),getNodeHeight(node.right));
-
- //维护平衡
- return keepBalance(node);
- }
-
- //从AVL中删除值为key的元素
- public V remove(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node!=null){
- root=del(root,key);
- size--;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- //获取Map中的最小的key
- private Node min(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- return node;
- }
- return min(node.left);
- }
-
- //删除以node为根结点的Map中的key最小的元素
- private Node delMin(Node node){
- if(node.left==null){
- Node nodeRight=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- return nodeRight;
- }
- node.left=delMin(node.left);
-
- //更新height
- node.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(node.left),getNodeHeight(node.right));
-
- //维护平衡
- return keepBalance(node);
- }
-
- ////删除以node为根结点的Map中的键值为key的元素
- private Node del(Node node, K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- //记录删除元素后,该BST的新的根节点
- Node retNode=null;
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- node.left=del(node.left,key);
- retNode=node;
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- node.right=del(node.right,key);
- retNode=node;
- }else{
- //节点node就是要删除的节点
- //该节点只右有子树
- if(node.left==null){
- Node rightNode=node.right;
- node.right=null;
- size--;
- retNode=rightNode;
- }else if(node.right==null){ //该节点只有左子树
- Node leftNode=node.left;
- node.left=null;
- size--;
- retNode=leftNode;
- }else{
- //删除既有左子树又有右子树的节点
- Node s=min(node.right);
- s.right=delMin(node.right);
- s.left=node.left;
-
- //删除node
- node.left=node.right=null;
- retNode=s;
- }
- }
- if(retNode==null){
- return retNode;
- }
- //更新height
- retNode.height=1+Math.max(getNodeHeight(retNode.left),getNodeHeight(retNode.right));
-
- //保持平衡
- return keepBalance(retNode);
- }
-
- //维护以node为根节点的二叉树是平衡二叉树
- private Node keepBalance(Node node){
- //计算平衡因子
- int balancedFactor=getBalancedFactor(node);
-
- //平衡维护
- //LL
- if(balancedFactor>1 && getBalancedFactor(node.left)>=0){
- return rightRotate(node);
- }
- //RR
- if(balancedFactor<-1 && getBalancedFactor(node.right)<=0){
- return leftRotate(node);
- }
- //LR
- if(balancedFactor>1 && getBalancedFactor(node.left)<0){
- Node x=node.left;
- node.left=leftRotate(x);
- //LL
- return rightRotate(node);
- }
- //RL
- if(balancedFactor<-1 && getBalancedFactor(node.right)>0){
- Node x=node.right;
- node.right=rightRotate(x);
- //RR
- return leftRotate(node);
- }
- return node;
- }
-
- public boolean contains(K key) {
- return getNode(root,key)!=null;
- }
-
- public V get(K key) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- return node==null?null:node.value;
- }
-
- public void set(K key, V newValue) {
- Node node=getNode(root,key);
- if(node==null){
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key+"does not exist");
- }
- node.value=newValue;
- }
-
- //返回以node为根节点的二分搜索树中,key所在的节点
- private Node getNode(Node node,K key){
- if(node==null){
- return null;
- }
- if(key.compareTo(node.key)<0){
- return getNode(node.left,key);
- }else if(key.compareTo(node.key)>0){
- return getNode(node.right,key);
- }else{ //key.compareTo(node.key)==0
- return node;
- }
- }
-
- public int getSize() {
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty() {
- return size==0;
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/BST.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/BST.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 24b5e00..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/BST.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,194 +0,0 @@
-package code_12_hashTable;
-
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-
-public class BST, V> {
-
- private class Node{
- public K key;
- public V value;
- public Node left, right;
-
- public Node(K key, V value){
- this.key = key;
- this.value = value;
- left = null;
- right = null;
- }
- }
-
- private Node root;
- private int size;
-
- public BST(){
- root = null;
- size = 0;
- }
-
- public int getSize(){
- return size;
- }
-
- public boolean isEmpty(){
- return size == 0;
- }
-
- // 向二分搜索树中添加新的元素(key, value)
- public void add(K key, V value){
- root = add(root, key, value);
- }
-
- // 向以node为根的二分搜索树中插入元素(key, value),递归算法
- // 返回插入新节点后二分搜索树的根
- private Node add(Node node, K key, V value){
-
- if(node == null){
- size ++;
- return new Node(key, value);
- }
-
- if(key.compareTo(node.key) < 0)
- node.left = add(node.left, key, value);
- else if(key.compareTo(node.key) > 0)
- node.right = add(node.right, key, value);
- else // key.compareTo(node.key) == 0
- node.value = value;
-
- return node;
- }
-
- // 返回以node为根节点的二分搜索树中,key所在的节点
- private Node getNode(Node node, K key){
-
- if(node == null)
- return null;
-
- if(key.equals(node.key))
- return node;
- else if(key.compareTo(node.key) < 0)
- return getNode(node.left, key);
- else // if(key.compareTo(node.key) > 0)
- return getNode(node.right, key);
- }
-
- public boolean contains(K key){
- return getNode(root, key) != null;
- }
-
- public V get(K key){
-
- Node node = getNode(root, key);
- return node == null ? null : node.value;
- }
-
- public void set(K key, V newValue){
- Node node = getNode(root, key);
- if(node == null)
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key + " doesn't exist!");
-
- node.value = newValue;
- }
-
- // 返回以node为根的二分搜索树的最小值所在的节点
- private Node minimum(Node node){
- if(node.left == null){
- return node;
- }
- return minimum(node.left);
- }
-
- // 删除掉以node为根的二分搜索树中的最小节点
- // 返回删除节点后新的二分搜索树的根
- private Node removeMin(Node node){
-
- if(node.left == null){
- Node rightNode = node.right;
- node.right = null;
- size --;
- return rightNode;
- }
-
- node.left = removeMin(node.left);
- return node;
- }
-
- // 从二分搜索树中删除键为key的节点
- public V remove(K key){
-
- Node node = getNode(root, key);
- if(node != null){
- root = remove(root, key);
- return node.value;
- }
- return null;
- }
-
- private Node remove(Node node, K key){
-
- if( node == null )
- return null;
-
- if( key.compareTo(node.key) < 0 ){
- node.left = remove(node.left , key);
- return node;
- }
- else if(key.compareTo(node.key) > 0 ){
- node.right = remove(node.right, key);
- return node;
- }
- else{ // key.compareTo(node.key) == 0
-
- // 待删除节点左子树为空的情况
- if(node.left == null){
- Node rightNode = node.right;
- node.right = null;
- size --;
- return rightNode;
- }
-
- // 待删除节点右子树为空的情况
- if(node.right == null){
- Node leftNode = node.left;
- node.left = null;
- size --;
- return leftNode;
- }
-
- // 待删除节点左右子树均不为空的情况
-
- // 找到比待删除节点大的最小节点, 即待删除节点右子树的最小节点
- // 用这个节点顶替待删除节点的位置
- Node successor = minimum(node.right);
- successor.right = removeMin(node.right);
- successor.left = node.left;
-
- node.left = node.right = null;
-
- return successor;
- }
- }
-
- public static void main(String[] args){
-
- System.out.println("Pride and Prejudice");
-
- ArrayList words = new ArrayList<>();
- if(FileOperation.readFile("pride-and-prejudice.txt", words)) {
- System.out.println("Total words: " + words.size());
-
- BST map = new BST<>();
- for (String word : words) {
- if (map.contains(word))
- map.set(word, map.get(word) + 1);
- else
- map.add(word, 1);
- }
-
- System.out.println("Total different words: " + map.getSize());
- System.out.println("Frequency of PRIDE: " + map.get("pride"));
- System.out.println("Frequency of PREJUDICE: " + map.get("prejudice"));
- }
-
- System.out.println();
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/FileOperation.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/FileOperation.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 99e71a2..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/FileOperation.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,69 +0,0 @@
-package code_12_hashTable;
-
-import java.io.BufferedInputStream;
-import java.io.File;
-import java.io.FileInputStream;
-import java.io.IOException;
-import java.util.ArrayList;
-import java.util.Locale;
-import java.util.Scanner;
-
-// 文件相关操作
-public class FileOperation {
-
- // 读取文件名称为filename中的内容,并将其中包含的所有词语放进words中
- public static boolean readFile(String filename, ArrayList words){
-
- if (filename == null || words == null){
- System.out.println("filename is null or words is null");
- return false;
- }
-
- // 文件读取
- Scanner scanner;
-
- try {
- File file = new File(filename);
- if(file.exists()){
- FileInputStream fis = new FileInputStream(file);
- scanner = new Scanner(new BufferedInputStream(fis), "UTF-8");
- scanner.useLocale(Locale.ENGLISH);
- }
- else
- return false;
- }
- catch(IOException ioe){
- System.out.println("Cannot open " + filename);
- return false;
- }
-
- // 简单分词
- // 这个分词方式相对简陋, 没有考虑很多文本处理中的特殊问题
- // 在这里只做demo展示用
- if (scanner.hasNextLine()) {
-
- String contents = scanner.useDelimiter("\\A").next();
-
- int start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, 0);
- for (int i = start + 1; i <= contents.length(); )
- if (i == contents.length() || !Character.isLetter(contents.charAt(i))) {
- String word = contents.substring(start, i).toLowerCase();
- words.add(word);
- start = firstCharacterIndex(contents, i);
- i = start + 1;
- } else
- i++;
- }
-
- return true;
- }
-
- // 寻找字符串s中,从start的位置开始的第一个字母字符的位置
- private static int firstCharacterIndex(String s, int start){
-
- for( int i = start ; i < s.length() ; i ++ )
- if( Character.isLetter(s.charAt(i)) )
- return i;
- return s.length();
- }
-}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/HashTable.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/HashTable.java
deleted file mode 100644
index ac50aed..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/HashTable.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,70 +0,0 @@
-package code_12_hashTable;
-
-import java.util.HashMap;
-import java.util.TreeMap;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/3.
- */
-public class HashTable {
- private TreeMap[] hashtable;
- private int M;
- private int size;
-
- public HashTable(int M){
- this.M=M;
- this.size=0;
- this.hashtable=new TreeMap[M];
- for(int i=0;i();
- }
- }
-
- public HashTable(){
- this(97);
- }
-
- private int hash(K key){
- return (key.hashCode() & 0x7fffffff) % M;
- }
-
- public int getSize(){
- return size;
- }
-
- public void add(K key,V value){
- TreeMap map=hashtable[hash(key)];
- if(map.containsKey(key)){
- map.put(key,value);
- }else{
- map.put(key,value);
- size++;
- }
- }
-
- public V remove(K key){
- TreeMap map=hashtable[hash(key)];
- V ret=null;
- if(map.containsKey(key)){
- ret=map.remove(key);
- size--;
- }
- return ret;
- }
-
- public void set(K key,V value){
- TreeMap map=hashtable[hash(key)];
- if(!map.containsKey(key)) {
- throw new IllegalArgumentException(key + "does not exist!");
- }
- map.put(key,value);
- }
-
- public boolean contains(K key){
- return hashtable[hash(key)].containsKey(key);
- }
-
- public V get(K key){
- return hashtable[hash(key)].get(key);
- }
-}
diff --git a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/HashTable2.java b/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/HashTable2.java
deleted file mode 100644
index 78bff3a..0000000
--- a/DataStructureNotes/src/code_12_hashTable/HashTable2.java
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,96 +0,0 @@
-package code_12_hashTable;
-
-import java.util.TreeMap;
-
-/**
- * Created by 18351 on 2019/1/3.
- */
-public class HashTable2 {
- private static final int upperTol=10;
- private static final int lowerTol=2;
- private static final int initCapacity=7;
-
- private TreeMap[] hashtable;
- private int M;
- private int size;
-
- public HashTable2(int M){
- this.M=M;
- this.size=0;
- this.hashtable=new TreeMap[M];
- for(int i=0;i();
- }
- }
-
- public HashTable2(){
- this(initCapacity);
- }
-
- private int hash(K key){
- return (key.hashCode() & 0x7fffffff) % M;
- }
-
- private void resize(int newM){
- TreeMap[] newHashtable=new TreeMap[newM];
- for(int i=0;i();
- }
-
- int oldM=M;
- this.M=newM;
- for(int i=0;i map=hashtable[i];
- for(K key:map.keySet()){
- newHashtable[hash(key)].put(key,map.get(key));
- }
- }
- this.hashtable=newHashtable;
- }
-
- public int getSize(){
- return size;
- }
-
- public void add(K key,V value){
- TreeMap